


Don't You Worry Child (the Seven have a plan for you)

by K_R_Closson



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-01-05 11:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson
Summary: Margaery goes back in time. She marries a Baratheon. Again. This time, she’ll make it stick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Propriety_is_not_a_priority](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Propriety_is_not_a_priority/gifts).



> This is very much testing the limits of better late than never, but I have finally finished this story.

Smoke burns Margaery’s nose and screams ring in her ears, her own and-and others, and all she can feel is heat and  _ pain _ and--

And cushions?

It’s surprise more than anything that uncurls her arms from their instinctive, futile attempt to protect her from the flames and falling rubble, and she reaches out and touches soft fabric, tiny embroidery, and carved wood.

Early morning birdsong and light incense fill her ears and nose, and the disconnect between her expectations and her senses is simply too much to continue cowering in fear. She opens her eyes.

There is a statue of the Stranger before her, one she is certain collapsed into rubble. She can’t see Loras, or Father, or indeed, anyone besides herself. Bright sunlight spills through exquisite stained glass windows, famed throughout Westeros, illuminating padded benches with a distinct, familiar rose pattern. This isn’t the Great Sept of Baelor; this is the Sept in Highgarden.

She is  _ home _ .

She half-falls to the floor and scrambles to her feet, throwing open the doors and drinking in the sight of Highgarden in the morning, the light reflecting off smooth stone, the dew on the flowers, the scent of green and growing things.

For long moments all she can feel is an overwhelming joy.

Then her practical nature reasserts itself. How is this possible? What has happened? Her Grandmother rescued her somehow and, what, laid her out in the Sept? Alone?

Margaery’s arms are pale and smooth and decidedly unburnt, uncrushed. Her small bare feet are perfectly clean, when she’s sure remembers them coated in grime and ash. She pats herself down, noting that she’s in her nightclothes, a shapeless gown she’d left in Highgarden as unfitting for a soon-to-be-married woman, and her body is round and healthy, like she hasn’t been on the edge of starvation for weeks.

Hmm.

Her desire to understand what is happening is entirely overwhelmed by the need to see Loras, to look into his face and know that he is well--or as well as can be expected--and she applies herself to sneaking back to her room. Whatever the situation, it can hardly be appropriate for her to be cavorting about in her nightclothes.

She makes it all the way to her rooms before she surprises her handmaiden at the door, who narrowly avoids dropping the selection of dresses she’s carrying.

“Oh! My lady, what are you doing out of bed?” Dahlia asks. She looks… young. And not nearly as worried as she should be, considering she followed Margaery to Renly’s war camp and then King’s Landing and, presumably, escaped somehow. 

But she has other concerns just now. “Where is Loras? Where is my brother?”

“He’s with Lord Renly at Storm’s End,” Dahlia says, gently, like Margaery is a spooked horse and not a noble lady. “He left a fortnight ago, to train for the tournament.”

Storm’s End. Renly. What.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Dahlia asks.

Margaery blinks rapidly. There’s only one way any of this makes sense. Dahlia looks young and untouched by the horrors of war because she  _ is _ young. Margaery remembers this. Loras in Storm’s End, ostensibly laying the groundwork for Renly’s part in their bid for the throne, but mostly being ridiculous and in love. Margaery waiting in Highgarden for Renly to be convinced that an engagement was his idea. The Plan.

A plan that led Renly to his death, and Margaery and Loras into Cersei’s evil clutches, and probably the destruction of their entire House.

“My lady?” Dahlia prompts.

She’s been quiet too long. Margaery shakes the thoughts out of her head and arranges her expression in her customary smile. “A bad dream, Dahlia, nothing more. I thought to take a walk and realized, silly me, not like this!” She manages a light laugh.

Dahlia smiles back, a bit uncertainly. “I’ve brought some dresses for you to choose from.”

“Excellent, just what I needed. And then perhaps I’ll join Grandmother for morning meal.”

“Of course, my lady. Come inside before someone sees you.”

#

Margaery wanders through the rose garden, filled with a new appreciation for the flowers and their bright colors. There had been no color, no life in the dungeons of King’s Landing. There has been no hope either. There was only hunger and pain, filth and fear. And death.

Perhaps she should wonder whether she has gone mad, but she doesn’t. Margaery has always been practical, grounded. Not like Loras, filled with fanciful dreams. She could never have imagined the realities of war, the depths of her suffering, or the deprivations of Cersei Lannister.

It seems perfectly clear what must have happened.

Margaery died in a Sept, and she woke again in a Sept. She might not be particularly devout, but she isn’t stupid, either. Cersei desecrated the Great Sept out of selfishness and spite, and the Seven have chosen Margaery to punish her for it. What a refreshingly straightforward Holy Mission. It would be Margaery’s  _ great pleasure _ to bring Cersei to judgment.

Margaery hates her as she has never hated anyone, to a degree she never would have believed possible when she was truly the girl she appears as now.  _ That woman _ is vicious, petty and cruel, selfishly destroying the lives of everyone around her, even her own supposedly-beloved children. Not to mention she’s the  _ stupidest _ woman in Westeros.

One child. One legitimate, Baratheon heir, and all the death and terror and violence could have been avoided. That’s what being Queen  _ means _ , not doing whatever foolish thing comes into your empty, spiteful head.

Margaery would have done it. She never met King Robert, but she’s heard plenty of unvarnished stories from Loras’s association with Renly, and Grandmother’s keen interest in the shifting alliances of King’s Landing. She knows what sort of man he was. Is. And-

This is not a productive line of thought. Cersei has already borne her three bastards, it’s too late to salvage that mess. Someone will find out and there will be war. It is inevitable. Marching to King’s Landing and wringing Cersei’s neck with her bare hands cannot stop it, however personally satisfying Margaery might find such a course of action.

And if that’s what the Seven wanted, a quick death, they could have chosen, well, anyone who died that day except Margaery. Perhaps not Father, he’s always been short-sighted, poor man. Of course she will see Cersei dead, the woman’s self-obsession borders on madness, and nothing else will truly stop her. But she will do it in such a way that her family will be safe and happy, and the rest of Westeros besides. And no one will dare imprison her again. Ever.

So. What to do? Margaery wishes she could avail herself of Grandmother’s incisive mind and formidable scheming, but she doubts her personal certainty that she hasn’t run mad will sound quite as convincing out loud. Especially to Grandmother, who is even less imaginative than Margaery herself, and sees religion as something that happens to other people. And anyway, Margaery is a grown woman, she doesn’t  _ need _ guidance so much as she  _ wants _ the reassurance. 

It would be pointless to marry Robert. She’d have to get rid of Cersei, Jaime, the three ostensible heirs, and all the other Lannister loyalists hanging about King’s Landing, all without rousing Lord Tywin’s suspicion or looking like it’s a power grab. If he were actually a good king it would  _ maybe _ be worth it, but he’s not and it isn’t.

She could follow through with the original plan and marry Renly, using her foreknowledge to… what? Convince him that he really is attracted to her? Counter the Red Witch’s black magic with her fervent wish that it wasn’t real? Ridiculous. She can admit, with years of additional experience and observation, that  _ maybe _ they were too hasty in pursuing Renly. He was chosen more from a dearth of other options than any true capability, and the Lannisters will eat him alive.

Joffrey? Become his princess before he ever sets eyes on Sansa Stark? Actually marry him, lie in his bed and be slowly tortured to death? Absolutely not. And Tommen is far, far too young.

She’ll have to play a longer game, pursue an alliance with the North or South in preparation for the coming war. Dorne and Highgarden aren’t quite as hostile as Dorne and the rest of Westeros, despite the usual misunderstandings that come from sharing a contested border, and she could play the Targaryen loyalist card if she has to. Except that she heard Dorne truly was supporting the Targaryen girl, the one who claimed power by feeding people to her dragons. Margaery hardly wants to trade a Sept full of wildfire for a repeat of the Field of Fire. House Tyrell may have benefited, but they didn’t forget.

And as for the North, well, Lord Eddard Stark will not be impressed by Margaery or Highgarden. The son maybe, the Young Wolf who so confounded Lord Tywin, but she heard about the circumstances of his death, he’s hardly any better at the Game than his father, who supported  _ Stannis _ of all people, the poor fool.

Oh.

Margaery feels like an idiot. She’d completely forgotten about Stannis.

He’s the rightful heir, if Robert dies without legitimate issue. He’s a disciplined man, a formidable commander, and--if Grandmother is to be believed--has been running the kingdom beside Jon Arryn almost from the moment Robert took the throne. He would probably make a decent king, if he weren’t so completely straightlaced and unlikable. Two traits that would be well offset by a queen skilled in the Game.

A queen like Margaery.

Unfortunately, Stannis Baratheon hates the Tyrells for the not entirely illegitimate reason that her Father once nearly starved him to death, and now Loras practically lives at Storm’s End while Stannis has been relegated to Dragonstone. Also she’s never heard even a whisper of a rumor that he was unfaithful to his wife, even though everyone from the Wall to Sunspear knows how desperately unhappy they were with each other, so not much hope on that front.

She’ll just have to put together a few plans, then wait and see which is most likely to work. And if she gets stuck, well, she’ll have to talk to Grandmother eventually about shifting away from Renly, and if she couches it in the hypothetical, she can get some useful feedback. Like whether it would be more useful to try turning a Stark boy into a proper southern lord or convince Oberyn Martell to settle down and marry. How old is Trystane again?

Whatever she decides, she will be the agent of her fate. She’s been married off to three different men and all she got for her trouble was dead. This time she’ll choose the man, and the people of Westeros will have a queen who cares for them, a ruler who believes in peace and justice and not blowing up her own city and killing hundreds for spite.

She’ll do whatever it takes.

Even if she has to somehow seduce Stannis Baratheon.


	2. Chapter 2

Margaery takes her morning meal with her grandmother in the largest of the gardens.

“You look flushed this morning,” Lady Olenna says.

“I was awake early and took a walk.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Preoccupied.” She spares a moment to wonder what her grandmother did when she learned of Margaery and Loras and Father’s deaths. Did she rain destruction down on King’s Landing or did she retreat to what family she had left? Margaery’s chest aches for a woman who doesn’t exist anymore and for a fate that will not come to pass in this lifetime. 

“Oh?”

“I miss Loras.”

Lady Olenna scoffs. “There’s not enough entertainment here for you?”

“He has enjoyed the hospitality of Storm’s End for near a month now,” Margaery says. “I believe it’s time to return the favor.”

“Oh?”

Margaery glances around to make sure there is no one standing too close to them. Their serving staff is discrete but it’s still best to keep… delicate information to a small inner circle. “Highgarden is more accepting of certain behaviors. Bring Loras and Renly here so that we might show Renly that we do not shame him for what he enjoys.”

“Who,” Lady Olenna says, because while Margaery twists and turns around her points, Lady Olenna cuts straight to them.

Margaery dips her head in acknowledgement. “They can train just as well for their tournament here, and we can keep a closer eye on them.”

“Do you think things are progressing too slowly?”

Margaery shakes her head. The last thing she wants to do is speed up her engagement to Renly. She needs to figure out her path before someone sets her on one she’s unwilling to follow through with. “I think we should show him why our family is one that he might one day wish to be a part of.”

“Hmm.” Lady Olenna studies Margaery as if trying to determine the angle she’s working. “You send the letter. I don’t have the patience for letter writing anymore.”

“Thank you. I’ll arrange a welcoming feast in their honor. It’s not every day that Highgarden hosts the King’s youngest brother.”

#

Loras, bless him, receives Margaery’s invitation and returns to Highgarden without any fuss. He pulls her in for a hug as soon as he disembarks the boat which brought him.

“Did you miss me or your future husband?” he asks, words whispered against her ear.

She holds him, alive and well, and tears sting her eyes. “You.”

He steps back, still grinning, but his smile falters when he sees her face. He cups her cheek, his thumb wiping at her tears. 

She brushes aside his hand and his concern as she steps forward to greet Renly. He looks dashing in a light blue tunic, his hair tousled from the wind on the sea. He smiles at her and bows as he reaches for her hand. There’s genuine warmth in his expression, but there’s no feeling as he brushes his lips over her skin.

She smiles back, easy but practiced. The two of them had a marriage made entirely of appearance. He plays the game better than some, but not nearly as well as her. 

“Lord Renly,” she greets. “Welcome to Highgarden. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

“If it’s half as beautiful as Loras has boasted then I’m sure I shall.”

“We have many gardens here,” she says, tucking her arm through his as she leads him away from the shore. “I hope you will have the time to see them!”

“I’ve heard of your hedge maze, with briars large enough to stop a man on horseback,” he says. “I would have thought it poetic exaggeration, but Loras assures me it is the truth.”

“Indeed it is, though I hope he spoke to you also of the beauties of Highgarden, the ivy and the flowers and, of course, the roses.”

Because she’s watching for it, she sees when his smile shifts from charming sincerity to a practiced mask. “I have also heard of the many beauties of Highgarden.” He pauses to kiss her hand gallantly.

He’s a sweet boy. And wouldn’t last ten seconds against Cersei. She mentally crosses Renly off her list of potential husbands. “We pride ourselves on the variety of flowers and arrangement of our gardens, though I’m afraid guests can find it a bit overwhelming. The hedge maze, of course, is near impossible to navigate, but even the smaller gardens have twists and turns every which way.”

“That sounds lovely,” Renly says, and it’s only because Loras has spoken of him at such length that she can see that he’s lying. Renly is known for his appreciation of fine foods, wines, and clothes, but he only appreciates flowers when Loras is wearing them. “Perhaps you can show me some of these gardens, then.”

“Oh, Loras is the real expert,” she lies, smiling brightly as her brother misses a step. “I’m sure he would be delighted to give you a tour.”

“Of course,” Loras stammers, like she hadn’t just sent him a letter expounding on what a great opportunity this is for her to meet Renly. “I particularly enjoy the south garden.”

“It’s not the southernmost of our gardens, despite its name,” Margaery cheerfully babbles on. “We call it that because it’s in the shadow of our largest wall, so it’s south of  _ something _ , I suppose. All the plants are a kind of ivy, and they’ve been grown around trellises of all shapes and sizes, so each is a unique work of art. Very quiet. And private.”

Loras is gawking at her over Renly’s shoulder.

“I see,” Renly says, and smiles at Loras. “I’d like that very much.”

“I know I interrupted your preparations,” Margaery says, “so I won’t monopolize your time, Lord Renly, or Loras’s. I only ask that you take the opportunity to see more of Highgarden than the practice courts.”

“You are too generous,” Renly says.

She’s tempted to wink, but decides it would be too much for poor Loras. “It is you who are generous, traveling all this way to indulge a little sister. Please enjoy your stay.”

“I shall.”

Margaery pats Renly’s arm and lets Loras drag him away, looking positively alarmed at what she might say next.

Grandmother is watching her very closely.

Margaery serenely glides away.

#

Margaery takes her afternoon meal in the courtyard these days, taking full advantage of the skills, and bodies, on display as the men prepare for the upcoming tournament. Renly doesn’t have Loras’s skill, but he is  _ very _ good-looking. Nothing wrong with  _ watching _ . 

Speaking of, she sees a particularly adept swordsman twist and turn, almost dancing as he dodges his opponent’s thrusts, dark hair falling quite fetchingly over a handsome face. His tunic lies tight over his broad shoulders, limiting his range of motion.

Well. Can’t have that. Could be unsafe.

When the bout ends with a victory for the dark-haired man, she approaches him, a small covered pot in her hands. 

He stands straighter as she approaches and sketches a quick bow. “My lady.”

She smiles, warm and inviting. “Welcome to Highgarden Ser…”

“Gareth. Ser Gareth Wylde of House Rain.”

“You have a gift for swordsmanship, Ser Gareth, but it appears as if your clothing has put you at a disadvantage. If it is our climate that has you concerned, we have a salve to protect our skin from the harshness of the sun.” She offers the pot to him. 

“Er,” he says.

Margaery summons up a demure blush. “Oh! If it is my presence making you modest then I will take my meal elsewhere. I would not want to make anyone uncomfortable or impede your training.”

Ser Gareth flushes and stumbles over his words in his haste to reassure her. “Word of your kindness has spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, Lady Margaery, and it is an honor to receive it firsthand. A tunic does provide some protection in a bout, but with these blunt training blades it should make little difference if-if you are certain you will not be offended.”

Margaery allows her gaze to slide over Ser Gareth’s tunic, much too tight and damp with sweat. “I am not offended, ser.”

She passes the salve to him before she returns to her shaded table. After a brief conversation, the waiting knights and squires strip off their tunics, showing off broad chests and muscled shoulders.

Margaery sighs happily as she lifts her wine and raises it in a toast to the next bout.

“This is much better, Dahlia, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, my lady,” Dahlia says.

#

On Margaery’s third day watching the men train, someone breaks her unofficial new dress code. The newcomer towers over most of the men and has short-cropped hair, so Margaery mentally excuses herself for not immediately realizing that she’s a woman at first glance. 

Ah. Margaery remembers this woman. Brienne I’m-not-a-lady-I’m-not-a-knight of Tarth. She earned a place in Renly’s kingsguard by knocking an overconfident Loras into the dirt, then had to flee for her life after that business with the black magic.

At the time Margaery hadn’t taken much notice of her, which now seems like an inexcusable oversight. Despite her height and breadth, the woman moves with the grace of a dancer, using her sword and clever footwork to disarm her opponent. When the man she faces hits the ground, Brienne’s sword at his throat, Margaery stands and applauds. Would it be too telling to fan herself?

No one else is applauding, and both Brienne and her opponent are staring, but Margaery doesn’t care. She and Dahlia are the only ones here just to watch, and if none of the men are pleased to see a woman best them, well, men are idiots.

Waving for Dahlia to remain in the shade, Margaery refills her glass with juice, pours a second for Brienne, and makes her way over.

“You are quite skilled,” Margaery says, offering Brienne the cup.

She eyes it warily.

“It’s juice only. I would not put you at a disadvantage, though I doubt it would inconvenience you much.”

Instead of accepting the drink, Brienne offers her downed opponent a hand up.

He scowls and knocks her hand away, considers spitting before glancing at Margaery and thinking better of it, then levers himself to his feet. He looks torn between getting ruffled over being beaten by a woman or leering at Margaery.

Margaery narrows her eyes. She hopes Loras wasn’t this graceless in defeat, though thinking back on it she thinks he probably was. It’s not worth bothering herself over this idiot, but she and Loras will definitely be having words later. He should be  _ honored _ to have such a skilled opponent knocking him into the dirt.

It’s not a total loss, though, because Brienne takes a step forward, not precisely putting herself between Margaery and the man, but the message is clear nonetheless.

He mutters under his breath, something about girls having no business playing around in serious men’s business, and more that she doesn’t catch, though she has no doubt it’s rude.

Brienne pretends not to hear.

Which gets Margaery’s back right up. “You must tell me all about your training,” she says, so brightly that Loras breaks off his conversation with Renly and starts towards her. She takes Brienne’s arm, ignoring the flash of panic in her eyes. It’s a nice arm, very firm and muscled. “Us women don’t have nearly as many opportunities to play with swords.”

She can’t help a pointed glance at the man’s crotch, and not subtle enough judging by the spate of laughter and Loras’s pained groan.

Well, perhaps she was as subtle as she wanted to be.

The man sputters, but obviously thinks better of being rude to The Rose of Highgarden while  _ in _ Highgarden.

Margaery ignores him, wrapping herself around Brienne’s arm and enjoying watching the red flush spread across her face the more she does. 

“Your ladyship is too kind,” Brienne finally says, her words stilted and awkward. Her hair really is dreadful, neither the cut nor the color flattering her, and now that she’s no longer fighting, she looks as awkward in her her own skin as she sounds.

Margaery is utterly charmed. She wants to twine herself even more around Brienne’s arm, get even closer, but there’s no room. Well, not while they’re both fully dressed. Probably Brienne would not be open to suggestions in that direction.

“This is Brienne of Tarth,” Renly says. “Her father is one of my bannermen. This tournament is going to be the grandest the Stormlands has ever seen, and Loras kindly invited any interested person to train here in Highgarden. I’ll admit I was surprised when Lady Brienne joined us, but she’s more than earned her place here.”

Brienne’s entire face is bright red, along with her neck and ears. “Th-thank you, my lord,” she stammers.

It’s adorable.

Loras is giving Margaery a very judgmental look from behind Brienne’s back.

She doesn’t roll her eyes at him, because that wouldn’t be ladylike, but she thinks about it. “Can I get you another drink?” she asks, making sure her fingers linger over Brienne’s.

“I am well, my lady,” Brienne says, jerking her hand back so quickly Margaery nearly drops the cup. She starts to curtsey, remembers she’s wearing armor, and bows to the space between Renly and Margaery and escapes.

Well, sweet as it is, that crush on Renly isn’t going anywhere, so Margaery is free to pursue her. She’ll have to be patient, but that’s fine. She enjoys a practiced flirtation, like with Renly, but this could be fun, too. 

#

At dinner that night, Renly brings Brienne to sit at the high table with them. He always brings someone, a knight or a lady, either to keep Margaery company or to show favor to someone who’s pleased him. She thinks tonight might be a mix of both. 

She smiles as she gestures for Brienne to sit beside her. “Please join me, Lady Brienne.”

“Just Brienne,” Brienne answers quickly. “I’m not a lady.”

Margaery keeps her amusement behind her polite smile. “As you please.”

“Ladies don’t fight,” Brienne rushes to explain. “And women can’t be knights.”

“So you make your own way,” Margaery says, raising her cup. “To choosing our own paths.”

Brienne looks a little suspicious, but not nearly as suspicious as she should. After a moment, where Margaery’s smile and raised cup do not waver, she raises her own in toast. “Forgive me, my lady, but you’re not what I expected.”

How refreshingly blunt. “Oh?”

“You are as beautiful as they say,” Brienne’s face flushes a mottled red and she hurries to speak again, “but you are,” here she pauses and looks as if she wishes the ground would swallow her whole.

“Ah,” Margaery says as she leans back in her seat. “Not as superficial as my looks might suggest?”

Brienne makes a strangled sort of sound which Margaery takes as an affirmative. 

“I know what men say about women like me,” Margaery says. “As I’m sure you have learned what men say about women like you. They rarely look deep enough to see the full picture. You are more than a woman with a sword, and I am more than a woman with a pretty smile. It doesn’t mean we don’t use those weapons we have been gifted with, but it isn’t all of who we are.”

Brienne stares at her, lips parted, as if Margaery has run her through with a spear. 

“Would you care for a tour of the gardens after dinner?” Margaery asks. “I would like to hear more about you, from your own mouth, though I’m not sure the source can be as trusted as I’d like.”

“My lady--”

“You wear your self-deprecation like armor,” Margaery interrupts. “I’m sure it’s served you well in the past, but it isn’t needed here in Highgarden.”

“With all due respect, my lady, I think it is especially needed here.”

Brienne holds Margaery’s gaze for a moment before she drops it to her plate. Margaery gifts her with a moment to compose herself before taking pity on her and confining her conversation to questions about her plans for the tournament. 

She does get her walk, but Loras insists on he and Renly joining them.

Honestly, what does he think she’s going to do? Jump her behind a trellis? Climb her like an ivy plant?

Well. Maybe she would have tried, but that’s her own business, and Loras is hardly one to talk.

So the four of them stroll through the gardens, though Margaery takes Brienne’s arm and hangs back behind the men.

“We’re here to chaperone, not interrupt,” Margaery says as she begins to walk, a leisurely pace that Brienne is no doubt unused to.

Brienne looks alarmed and this would be all the proof Margaery needed that she isn’t a lady, even if Margaery had never seen her in the training grounds. She doesn’t know how to guard her expression. She’s open in her reactions, something that Margaery enjoys even as a part of her winces. She hasn’t been that careless since she was a child. 

“There’s no need for that,” Margaery says. “I’m sure you know your lord as well as I know my brother.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“They are men who share many interests.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Are you going to agree with me all night?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Margaery’s lips turn up in a smile. “Well, in that case, I should like it if you carry my token at the tournament.”

Brienne looks alarmed again and tries to pull away. 

Margaery holds onto her and turns her smile up a notch. They stop in the middle of the path, waiting. 

When Brienne realizes that Margaery won’t back down, she scuffs her foot on the ground and says, “Yes, my lady. It’s an honor.”

Pleased, Margaery begins to walk again. “I noticed that you wear your training clothes to dinner. Perfectly understandable, at the end of such a long journey. It would be my honor to provide you with formal wear appropriate to your station. Is your preference for dresses or breeches?”

Brienne bristles, bracing herself for insult.

Margaery smiles back, as innocent and empty-headed as she knows how, which is a lot.

Brienne slowly relaxes, and to Margaery’s utter delight can’t keep her eyes from darting to Margaery’s back, exposed to the night air, then her front, where her neckline plunges. Highgarden fashions are no doubt very different from Tarth. It’s colder there, for one.

Margaery hunches her shoulders just a bit, and takes a deep breath.

Brienne coughs. “I, er, prefer tunics and breeches, my lady.”

“Of course. In a light fabric, suitable for the warmer climate.” She scrutinizes every part of Brienne she can see and thoroughly enjoys her spreading blush. “In blue, I think, to bring out your eyes.”

“It is a gift I do not deserve,” Brienne mumbles to her plate.

“I didn’t realizes gifts were given based on merit.”

“You would know best, my lady.”

#

Everyone’s already here anyway, so they hold the tournament in Highgarden. There will be another day for Renly to host the greatest tournament the Stormlands has ever seen.

Margaery gives Loras a stern talking-to about being a gracious loser, and in retaliation he wins the joust and refuses to even attempt the melee. She is not impressed, and directs him to follow Renly’s example. He performs adequately in both events, but does not begrudge Loras his success.

“He’d do better if he bothered to practice,” Loras says.

Margaery huffs and lets it go.

Tournaments have never been her favorite, and the knights put their clothes back on now that they’re fighting with real weapons, so mostly she cheers for Loras and admires Brienne and lets her mind spin in endless circles over the future of Westeros while men and Brienne battle each other for pride and glory and modest winner’s pouches.

Brienne wears the white handkerchief with its delicately embroidered green ivy and red roses tucked into her belt. Margaery had been afraid she wouldn’t, after she’d gotten so successful at hiding after that walk in the garden, but when Margaery finally cornered her minutes before the tournament began, she’d blushed and accepted the favor.

Margaery had tried to restrain herself so as not to scare Brienne away, but she has to reward good behavior. To do otherwise would be rude.

Besides, Brienne wins the tournament, and the modest purse was really inadequate for such a victory, so it’s completely reasonable that Margaery has had three sets of formalwear made for her, two in the style of Highgarden and one in Baratheon colors.

“Three, sister?” Loras whispers in her ear.

She manages to dig an elbow into his side without anyone else noticing.

“You can’t tell me you don’t deserve these,” Margaery says, pretending not to notice that none of the men have been at all gracious in their defeat.

“Thank you, my lady,” Brienne says after a long pause, apparently through with fighting for the day.

She even wears one of them to the celebratory feast that night, Baratheon blue with silver embroidery. Margaery had been hoping for one of the Highgarden tunics, which are less severely modest, but Brienne is wearing clothes that she had made for her. It’s good enough for now, and makes Margaery smile every time she sees a flash of blue and silver.

#

With the end of the tournament, Margaery is out of excuses for avoiding Grandmother. Margaery knows it, and Grandmother knows it, and they are both highborn ladies so there is no need to voice the expectation that Margaery will attend morning meal with Grandmother the day after the tournament, and certainly no need to send a servant to ensure Margaery doesn’t try and sneak off.

Nonetheless, Grandmother does both.

Honestly, Margaery thinks, as she is practically marched to the breakfast room. She’s looking forward to the day she can be this rude.

But she has barely sat down when respite arrives in the form of a formal summons to King’s Landing for Lord Renly.

“Renly thinks he’s in trouble,” Loras says, when she corners him in his rooms packing a bag.

“He does have a position on the Small Council,” Margaery points out, trying to remember if this happened the first time around. She doesn’t remember it, but she’d hadn’t met Renly at this point in her past life, and paid no attention to the tournament that no doubt took place at Storm’s End without her interference. “Maybe something has happened.”

Loras stops packing so she can get the full effect of his scoff and eye roll. “Robert doesn’t even show up for his own Small Council meetings, let alone demand anyone else does. Maybe Stannis wants to gripe about losing Storm’s End again.”

“You don’t think Renly is in any danger of losing his inheritance, do you?”

“Gods, no. Robert’s probably just jealous that Renly was off having fun at a tournament while he’s stuck in King’s Landing with the Queen. I heard he’s too fat to lift that mighty warhammer of his anymore.”

Margaery shudders at the mention of Cersei. “Don’t say things like that about the King.”

“It’s true.”

“Someone might hear you,” Margaery says, a little more sharply than she intends. King Robert might have taken undue credit for winning the war near-singlehandedly, and he might be frittering away that success in drink and women and excess spending, but he’s still the one actually sitting on the throne. He could really hurt them.

“So? They’re all saying the same thing.” Loras shrugs, supremely unconcerned.

“But why are you going?” Margaery asks, trying not to think of Loras in King’s Landing, and what happened the last time he went there.

“Moral support,” Loras says. “Renly thinks Robert wants to get on his case about heirs again. Try and marry him off.”

“And you’re going to do what, tell King Robert that you’re going to marry him instead?”

Loras glares. “I would if I could.”

She looks away first. “I know.”

They both glare at the floor in uncomfortable silence for a stretch. Margaery learned early that her heart is a bargaining chip the same as her looks and her name and her money. Despite his position as son and heir, Loras’s attachment to Renly is advantageous for the family, and he was spared those lessons. She wonders if that was actually a good thing, or if it will only bring him more pain now.

“Then I’m going with you,” Margaery announces.

“What? Why?”

“If that’s really what this is about, I’ll marry him,” she says. “Then we can all go back to Storm’s End together.”

“You’ve barely spoken to him, I thought Grandmother had given up on the two of you marrying.”

“Are we talking about the same woman here?”

“Well then you’re going about it in a very strange way.”

Margaery can’t really argue with that, so she ignores it. Robert is a drunk, unhappy king with an even drunker, unhappier wife. If Loras insists on going to King’s Landing, well, she’ll just have to go with him. “I’ll talk to Grandmother.”

Morning meal has long since passed, but Margaery manages to join Grandmother for a late tea in the garden courtyard she’s claimed for her own personal use.

“You’re going to King’s Landing,” Grandmother says, before Margaery has even sat down.

Margaery fights not to sigh.

“Going to announce your engagement to Renly?”

How does she  _ do _ that?

“I will be joining you,” Grandmother says, and inclines her head in clear dismissal.

Margaery fumes all the way back to her rooms.

#

That night, Margaery tosses and turns, keeping Dahlia awake.

“I’m poor company tonight,” Margaery says. “You can go back to your own room if you want.”

Dahlia’s only response is to cuddle closer. 

Margaery resists for a moment, then sighs and holds her close, glad for a warm body in her bed, a trustworthy presence at her side. 

“Our roots run deep,” Dahlia says.

Margaery isn’t really in the mood for platitudes right now. Mostly she just doesn’t want to think. She rolls so she’s hovering over her handmaiden. “May I?”

Dahlia tilts his chin up and parts her lips for Margaery’s kiss. 


	3. Chapter 3

King’s Landing is louder than she remembers, and the smell worse. The high walls built to keep out invaders trap the stench and din of too many people living too closely together. It couldn’t be more unlike Highgarden, bright and open and filled with the sights and sounds of growing things.

And yet it’s here Margaery means to spend the rest of her life. She wants to help the women who avert their eyes when the knights pass and the women who boldly stare, hoping to be remembered. She wants to help the children who dart in and around the horses with sunken cheekbones and stomachs swollen with hunger.

“Stop,” Margaery says. She knocks on the side of her carriage for good measure. 

When her carriage stops, she steps out, Dahlia following her.

“My lady,” she protests, as bold as she’s willing to be with an audience. 

“I will walk the rest of the way,” Margaery announces. “Unless King Robert’s audience is today?”

Renly, towering over her on his horse, shakes his head. “It’s not until tomorrow, but…”  He glances down at the cobblestone and wrinkles his nose at the brown puddles that litter the street. “It’s a long walk, Lady Margaery.” 

“I’ll accompany her,” Brienne volunteers. She dismounts from her horse but keeps its reins in her hands. 

“Thank you,” Margaery says. “Dahlia, you should stay in the carriage.”

“You’re going to ruin your dress,” Dahlia says.

“I brought a whole trunk of them with me.” Margaery smiles at the children who crowd closer and they scatter back as if they’re afraid of attention. “If the sun begins to set before we reach the castle then I promise to ride with Brienne the rest of the way. I will be bathed and freshly clothed for dinner with the King.”

“Her mind is made up,” Loras says. “It’s best to let her have her way.”

“Wise words spoken by a wise man.” Margaery smiles and ushers the rest of the company along. “I want a chance to see our kingdom’s capital.”

They step aside until the whole company has passed. Then Margaery lifts her skirts and leads the way towards the palace on foot. The children who darted away earlier return now that it’s only Margaery and Brienne. They eye Brienne, or perhaps her horse, warily, but they grow bold when Margaery smiles at them. 

They creep closer, the boldest of them reaching their hands towards her. Margaery reaches back. 

“Hello,” she says. “My name is Margaery.”

They chorus back with their own names, and Margaery pauses so she can greet each one of them in turn. 

“I traveled a long way to reach your city,” she tells them. “Where is the best place to buy an afternoon snack?”

Now the children lunge forward, grabbing her hands and trying to pull her in all directions. She laughs and promises to try each place, just not all at once. She’s led to a cart where she trades coins for a few sticks of meat still sizzling from the fire. The next cart has sweet buns drizzled with honey and sugar. Next is some kind of fruit she’s not familiar with. 

The children “help” her to decide which of these offerings is the most delicious, and she nibbles on a sweet bun as more children appear from seemingly nowhere and scarf down food until she has no more coins on her.

Some slink away immediately, but others stay, chattering about the city and their lives and getting dirty handprints all over her dress.

She does manage to sneak a few bites to Brienne.

“Food shouldn’t be wasted,” Margaery says, when Brienne eyes a meat pie distrustfully. “And it’s quite good, but if I’m to fit into my dress for tonight I have to eat in moderation.”

“I did not realize moderation was a word nobles are familiar with,” Brienne says.

Margaery grins. “Was that a joke I heard just now?”

Brienne tries to look stern, but a smile tugs at her lips. 

They continue to wind their way through the city, seeing the people of the city and listening to the children talk. Their crowd grows thinner the closer they come to the gates of the palace. By the time they reach the city watchmen who guard the entrance, the children have vanished. 

She understands why when the first guard notices her, his gaze sliding over her bare shoulders and leaving an unpleasant tingle behind.

“Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden,” she tells them, “and Lady Brienne of Tarth. We would enter.”

“Of course,” the guard says. They step aside as they open the gates. Their gazes linger as Margaery and Brienne pass through. 

“I do not care for them,” Brienne says once they’re out of earshot.

“Nor do I. But they are behind us now.” And there are more men she doesn’t care for ahead. Ones who aren’t as easily dismissed as lowly city watchmen. 

Brienne looks unhappy to part with her horse at the stables, but when Margaery offers to forge ahead on her own, Brienne is quick to hand over the reins. 

Brienne escorts Margaery to the wing for Renly and “his guests”. 

“ _ Guests _ !” Lady Olenna complains from the couch in Margaery’s room. “As if our family is unimportant.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery says, mild, so she doesn’t excite her even more. “Are you truly going to allow Robert Baratheon to anger you so quickly?”

Lady Olenna huffs. “He is a drunk and a boor, but he knows how to place his barbs.”

“He’s also our king. And Renly’s brother.”

Her grandmother eyes Margaery’s hem, ragged and dirty. “I see you had a successful romp through the city.”

“I wanted some exercise.”

“Hmph.”

Margaery makes her escape before Grandmother can question her recent actions, citing her need to choose an appropriate outfit. Dahlia has already spread her dresses out over the bed. The green shift with the gold corset she’ll save for the audience tomorrow. Tonight is for something understated but undeniably Highgarden. Her fingers trail over the pink shift which dips far lower than she’d dare to wear on her first night at court.

She settles on something blue. It’s lighter than Baratheon blue, more like the color of the sea as the waves lap against the shore or the sky when there are no clouds. She pairs it with a darker corset, one which accentuates her narrow waist and the curve of her hips. 

The broach she wears at the V of the dress both makes the dress more modest and calls attention to her bosom. She fusses with the broach until Dahlia bats her hands away and adjusts it one final time. 

#

Renly leads them to the large dining room where they’ll take their supper. The King and Queen sit at the high table with their children while Renly’s party is given a table of their own out of range of easy conversation, with Stannis all the way on the opposite side of the room. A snub, or practicality? Given that this is King’s Landing, probably both.

Cersei’s lips twist when Renly’s party enters as if she’s bit into a lemon, and Margaery tries to tell herself that it’s just her imagination that that frown is directed at her personally. The Cersei of this time has no idea who she is, no particular reason to notice or dislike her, and this is just how Cersei is, bitter towards the world. It doesn’t make her feel better, nor does it push back the memories of fire and pain.

Margaery smiles serenely, because politeness is a weapon as much as it is a pleasantry, and follows dutifully as Renly approaches the high table to introduce them to the royal family.

She sinks into a deep curtsey when her name is mentioned, and she doesn’t have to look to know that King Robert is looking down her dress as she does. He’s glaring at his empty wine glass when she stands, but Cersei’s sour expression is enough to confirm her suspicions.

“Thank you for you hospitality, Your Grace,” Margaery says, opting to try and make as little an impression as possible. She doesn’t want to give Cersei any particular cause to remember her, and King Robert’s favor isn’t worth his queen’s disfavor; he’s only a significant player in the game of thrones because he’s the one sitting on it.

“I hope you will enjoy our hospitality as much as Renly here has enjoyed yours,” Robert says, leering. His cheeks are already flushed from his wine and he makes a crude gesture in Renly’s general direction. 

“Your highness is most kind,” Margaery says, diplomatic. 

They are presented to the princes and princess, and her resolve to consider Joffrey as a potential route to the throne disappears the moment she catches his eye. He’s not even looking at her, or doing anything besides staring at the wall, bored, but the sight of his face brings back all the memories of his treatment of her, of poor Sansa, of the serving girls, and she feels physically ill. She just can’t.

Her greeting for Joffrey is exactly correct for the Crown Prince, and she moves on quickly, managing a genuinely warm smile for Myrcella and little Tommen. They’re younger than she remembers, which, of course they would be, but she hadn’t known them when they were this young, Tommen’s face still round with baby fat. Pink blooms in his cheeks when Margaery stares a little too long. 

He’s just a child. She can’t involve him in her games, even if she could afford to wait long enough for him to come of age.

Instead of going to their seats, Renly leads them over to greet Stannis. Margaery keeps her surprise hidden behind a polite mask. She knows they aren’t close.

Loras, without her training or, it seems, a bit of sense in his empty head, actually asks Renly what they’re doing. At least he troubles to lower his voice.

“He’s brought Shireen with him,” Renly says. “I want to know why.”

Shireen, Margaery recalls, is Stannis’s daughter. They’ve never met, by the time Margaery came to court Stannis was hardly in a position to be paying visits. The dour woman beside him must be his wife, then. There’s one other at the table, a bearded man she doesn’t know, looking underdressed and ill at ease.

“Brought the whole family, eh?” Renly asks.

“As ordered,” Stannis says stiffly.

The two brothers glare at each other for a moment, and that seems to be that. Renly collects Loras and they head for their seats. Margaery lingers, so Grandmother does, too, eyes too sharp and knowing, as usual.

Margaery curtseys, and she’s careful to keep her back perfectly straight, preserving her modesty. She’d wanted to distract King Robert, but now she wants to avoid offending his brother.

“Good evening,” she says. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“It was fine,” Stannis says, and looks away, clearly dismissing her. 

Well then. Stannis’s lady wife--whose name she really should know, but currently escapes her--doesn’t even acknowledge Margaery’s polite greeting, but Margaery is undeterred. She turns her attention to the girl. “Hello, I’m Margaery. What’s your name?”

Up close, she can see that the poor child has a greyscale scar across half of her face. That explains why the table is practically empty; Margaery has to remind herself sternly that Stannis would hardly have brought her to court if she were still contagious.

“I’m Shireen,” Shireen says, ducking her head shyly.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Shireen.”

Shireen smiles, warm and bright for all that only half of her face moves, and Margaery is a little taken aback that a child of Stannis Baratheon has such a smile in her. She’d mostly been introducing herself to make up for Renly and Loras’s ill manners, but she finds herself smiling genuinely back, and giving in to impulse. “I’ve heard the Red Keep has magnificent gardens; you must join me for a walk sometime!”

“Really?” Poor Shireen looks like she’s had the surprise of her life.

Margaery can just imagine the reception this sweet young thing has gotten from the court ladies. “Really. My home, Highgarden, is famed for the beauty of its gardens; I would love to have someone show me around. With your father’s permission, of course.”

Stannis looks, no surprise, stiff. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sure your father will give his permission,” the bearded man says. He has a coat-of-arms like he’s a knight, but it’s not one Margaery recognizes. He nudges Shireen, giving her a warm, fatherly smile.

She smiles tentatively back. “I like flowers.”

He nods like it’s all settled then, even though Stannis hasn’t said anything. Who  _ is _ this man?

“I should take my leave so we may begin our meal,” Margaery says finally, when the silence starts to get awkward. “But we’re here as guests of your Uncle Renly so you know where to find us.”

She can feel Grandmother’s eyes on her back the whole way back to her seat.

“You’re wasting your time trying to talk to Stannis,” Renly says, rather unkindly even though she had, in fact, been wasting her time. At this rate she’ll have eliminated every potential ally in King’s Landing. She’s really starting to worry that she’ll have to go all the way to Dorne to find any useful aid.

“Shireen is a delightful girl,” is all she says.

Loras looks like he’s going to say something, but is interrupted by King Robert rising unsteadily to his feet, wine slopping over the edge of his over-full goblet. “To family!” he says. 

Renly and Stannis catch each other’s eye across the room and exchange an uncertain look, the first time Margaery has ever seen them in any sort of accord. 

Margaery clinks her goblet against Loras’s and tries not to look visibly irritated with all Baratheons. 

#

Margaery has just finished her morning meal when there’s a knock at her door. She nods at Dahlia to open it.

“Oh, hello,” Dahlia says, surprised but friendly. “My lady, the Lady Shireen and Ser Davos here to see you.”

Margaery blinks and carefully wipes her hands on a napkin, buying herself a moment to think. She’d been sincere in her offer, but hadn’t actually believed that Stannis would allow it. Or that Shireen would appear the very next morning.

None of that shows on her face when she rises to greet them. Ah, so the bearded man was a knight after all. “Good morning Shireen, Ser Davos. I’m glad you could make it.”

Shireen’s smile had been a little tentative, but now it blossomed, and her eyes shone. “Good morning, Lady Margaery! I haven’t seen the gardens yet, but Father found me a book and I can show you all the best flowers!”

Margaery chooses to be charmed by her enthusiasm and not saddened that she probably hasn’t been invited for many walks in the garden. And she’s not sure whether to laugh or roll her eyes that Stannis had found her a  _ book _ on gardens. At least he made some kind of effort, which is more than she’d expected. “I haven’t seen these gardens, but I do know the gardens of my home. We can show each other.”

Shireen’s smile broadened enough to show a missing tooth. “This is my Onion Knight,” she says, waving at Ser Davos, “he’s coming, too.”

Onion Knight. She knew that men were permitted to choose their own coat-of-arms, and that is certainly… a choice. He’s giving her a peculiar look, like she’d be so uncouth as to mock his name to his face. Now that she knows what to look for, his coat-of-arms  _ does _ look a bit like an onion.

“He’s called that because of his onions,” Shireen chatters on. “He snuck the onions past the siege so Father and Uncle Renly and everyone didn’t starve, and Father made him a knight.”

Ah. Well, this is awkward. “I see.”

“Father says, that was your father. Mace Tyrell.”

Margaery can only imagine the things Stannis Baratheon has to say about Mace Tyrell. “Yes, it was. I wasn’t there, though.”

“Of course not.” Shireen says. “Neither was I.”

She is either a very strange child or doesn’t rightly understand what they’re talking about. “Well, we’re both here now,” Margaery says, taking a moment to reflect on how odd that is. She still can’t believe Stannis actually let her come, bodyguard or no. “Your Uncle Renly has been a good friend to my family, and I’d quite like if we could be friends, as well. A new beginning for Tyrells and Baratheons.”

“Hmm,” Shireen says, looking entirely too shrewd for a--how old is she? Margaery has never been a great judge of children’s ages.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we could always walk the gardens another time,” Margaery offers.

Shireen huffs. “I spent  _ all night _ researching, we should go. I’m not afraid of you.”

“I’m glad,” Margaery says, holding her arm out. “Would you like to be my escort? You are a brave young lady.”

Shireen bounds over and loops her arm through Margaery’s. Her gaze lingers on the remnants of Margaery’s meal.

Margaery finds a pastry with sugar drizzled atop and holds it out. 

“You know how your father feels about sweets,” Ser Davos grumbles.

“Maybe just this once,” Margaery says, and winks.

Shireen gives her a mischievous little smile before giving her full attention to the treat.

Ser Davos rolls his eyes but he doesn’t look really annoyed, so Margaery’s going to count this as a win. The rest of her family must be out somewhere for Ser Davos and Shireen to have gotten as far as her door unharried, but she knows Grandmother at least will definitely hear about this from someone, and Loras will throw a fit if he knows she was out walking with potentially unfriendly people. So, judging by the expression on her face, will Dahlia.

“Let me ask Lady Brienne if she cares to accompany us,” Margaery says, because ladies walking together in the gardens is a perfectly ordinary thing, so long as they haven’t actually met Brienne. There probably isn’t time to ask her to put on a dress and pretend. Oh well. “I’m sure she would love to meet you.”

Shireen beams and licks the last of the sugar off her fingers, to Ser Davos’s disapproval, then drags Margaery down the hall until she realizes she doesn’t know where she’s going. Giggling, Margaery guides her towards Brienne’s door.

Brienne answers the door with her sword unsheathed, looking fresh from the practice courts and as unladylike as it is possible to be. 

So it goes, Margaery thinks philosophically. At least Ser Davos doesn’t act like she’s deceived him, and he isn’t rude, either. It’s a refreshing change.

Shireen convinces Brienne to join them without any input from Margaery, and the four of them only get lost once in the rabbit warren commonly known as the Red Keep before they find a garden.

It’s small and nowhere near as nice as the gardens of home, but it’s lovely all the same. Shireen claims never to have seen a garden, which Margaery hopes isn’t the case but, judging from what she’s heard of Dragonstone, very well might be the truth.

Shireen has a wonderful time crawling around in the dirt and trying to match the flowers with pictures from her book, quickly exhausting even Margaery’s extensive knowledge of green and growing things. Ser Davos and Brienne look on like indulgent parents, which Margaery does not appreciate, but she isn’t ashamed to be caught up in Shireen’s innocent enthusiasm so she doesn’t let it bother her.

The youngest Baratheon is insatiably curious and wants to know everything; the name of every flower, where they grow, how much sunlight they need, when they bloom and for how long. By the time she finally runs out of questions, the sun is high in the sky and Margaery is grateful that it’s such a small garden. 

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you from your midday meal,” Margaery says. “Should we see if our parties are still in the Great Hall?

Shireen stares at the ground, her shyness making a reappearance. “If you want.”

Hmm. “I walked through the city yesterday,” Margaery says. “I know where we can find a meal if you’d rather not go in yet.”

Brienne huffs. “My lady, I do not believe we have enough guards for that to be safe.”

“Agreed,” Ser Davos says. “I was born in this city, and I promise you that your father would have the rest of my fingers if I took you out in it.”

Margaery wants to sulk, but Shireen is nodding gravely and she doesn’t want to look more childish than an actual child. “The kitchens? We could probably find them.” She tries not to sound too doubtful.

“We shouldn’t,” Shireen says. “The servants are afraid of me, and I don’t want to bother them.”

For once, Margaery and Ser Davos are in perfect accord.

“Have they said anything to you?” Ser Davos asks, kneeling down so he and Shireen are at eye level.

“No,” Shireen mumbles. “Mostly they stare. Or run away.”

Margaery has a very strong desire to punch everyone in the Red Keep.

“Just the Queen,” Shireen adds, which does nothing to calm Margaery’s violent impulses.

Ser Davos looks torn between inquiring further and leaving it alone. It’s not like he could do anything to the Queen no matter what horrid thing she’d said.

“Don’t listen to her,” Margaery says, folding Shireen into a hug before she can think better of it. Shireen stiffens, which nicely covers Margaery’s own flinch when she realizes that she’s about to touch the scars, but Margaery gets a hold of herself and her own stupid, misguided prejudices in time for Shireen to melt into the hug. Proving something to herself and Shireen, she boldly cups the scarred cheek with her hand. “These are marks of survival, to be worn with pride. You were strong enough to fight a great battle, and lived where others have not. Never let them shame you.”

“You truly believe that?” Shireen asks, sniffling.

“Yes. And I’m sure your father thanks the Seven everyday for giving you the strength to remain with him.”

“He hates the gods,” Shireen says.

Of course he does. “Then whoever he credits with saving you, I’m sure he never forgets what a precious gift that, and you, are to him.” That might be a bit much, for Stannis Baratheon.

“Yes,” Shireen says, with a private smile that suggests it wasn’t too much at all. Then her face falls. “My mother doesn’t.”

Margaery has nothing to say to that. She doesn’t remember her own mother well, but never doubts her family’s love. She catches Ser Davos’s stricken expression over Shireen’s shoulder.

“She shouldn’t say such things to you,” Ser Davos says finally, fully aware that this is cold comfort.

“People can be nasty little… meanies,” Brienne says unexpectedly. “You’ll find there are plenty of people in the world who are cruel when they should have been kind, or look down on you for no good reason. It’s a hard truth, but there it is. For me, I’ve found that it makes those who  _ do _ love us even more precious.”

For Brienne, this is practically a speech. Margaery wants to ask after the pain in her eyes, but Shireen flings herself into Margaery’s lap, tucking her face against Margaery’s neck and leaving the skin there damp.

Margaery hugs her back, cursing a woman whose name she doesn’t even remember for making a little girl feel unwanted. For as long as Shireen is here, Margaery will make sure she has a positive female presence in her life. Trying to change the attitudes of the small and ignorant will be a lifetime’s work, but perhaps a different hairstyle will help conceal the scars from the casual observer. Or a headwrap like the women of Dorne wear. When Shireen is ready to raise her head proudly, Margaery will be happy for her, but until then, she shouldn’t have to shut herself away to avoid mockery and nastiness.

And Stannis will just have to accept it, whether he likes it or not.

#

“You were good with Lady Shireen,” Brienne says later, once Margaery has reluctantly left Shireen with her mother. At least Ser Davos was also there. 

“Children are easy,” Margaery says. “They want to be loved.”

“Not everyone gives their love away as freely as you do.”

“Not many people have as much to give as I do,” Margaery says. “We’re most generous with that which we have plenty of.” She lingers at the door to Brienne’s room, knowing this is where they must part. “I’m worried for the reason behind the King’s summons.”

“You think he bears ill will towards his brothers?” Brienne reaches for her sword before she catches herself, as if there were anything she could do if the king decided to be really nasty. 

“I’m sure that he does,” Margaery says dryly, “the only question is how far he is willing to go to communicate that ill will at this time.”

She turns to leave, but Brienne’s hand on her arm makes her pause.

Brienne quickly drops her hand. “I--that was quite forward of me.”

Margaery waits her out.

Sure enough, Brienne squares her jaw and forges ahead. “But if I might be still more forward, Renly has weathered many storms. He will weather this one as well, whichever direction the winds blow him.”

Margaery smiles even though the words don’t settle her as much as Brienne might hope. She knows a civil war is coming, and the seeds have already been planted. The King openly takes any woman who stands still long enough to bed, and rumors abound concerning the Queen’s secret lovers, that the King and Queen haven’t shared a bed since Tommen’s birth.

The King is an unhappy drunk, and Cersei is, too. Wine, jealousy, and power. Not a good combination.

Still, Margaery appreciates the effort, and places her hand on Brienne’s arm. “Thank you for your kind words. Will you be in attendance at the summons?”

“I will be at my lord’s side where I belong.”

“Good. We’ll need all the strength there is to have.”


	4. Chapter 4

Technically, the Tyrells are not invited when King Robert finally summons his brothers before him. Then again, neither is the entire rest of the court, and they’re turning up anyway, so the Tyrells certainly aren’t going to be left out. Loras is already there, supporting Renly, and Father is… somewhere, but Grandmother is waiting while Margaery dithers over her wardrobe.

It’s most unlike her, but she can’t help herself. She knows there are, or were, plans in place, plans for her to marry Renly and bring power and glory to House Tyrell, plans for Renly to sit the throne. And then there were her plans, more thoughts than plans really, for her to find a competent man to be her partner in the Game, to sit the throne and save Westeros from itself.

And now this. She has no idea what the king is going to do. Has she spooked him, alerted him to her schemes somehow? Renly hadn’t come to Highgarden the first time. Was that enough?

Margaery finally allows herself to be dressed in her stiffest corset, so if her strength fails her then her clothes, at least, will not. She taps her foot fretfully as Dahlia does her hair, and Dahlia does her the kindness of not mentioning it.

She arrives in the throne room, which holds no fond memories for her, and sees Cersei standing entirely too close to the Iron Throne for her peace of mind. She takes her place in the crowd, where the Tyrells have somehow secured a spot in the front. Grandmother certainly could have done it, but she stayed to escort Margaery.

King Robert is seated on the throne, looking uncomfortable in ill-fitting armor, which doesn’t match with what the rest of the court is wearing but makes him look more kingly than Margaery has ever seen him. It’s troubling. His hand twitches as if reaching for wine, but he’s not quite so far gone as to drink on the throne in the middle of a state occasion.

Renly and Stannis are standing before the throne, physically closer than Margaery has ever seen them, almost bumping shoulders.

Stannis’s small family is also in the front, directly opposite the Tyrells, standing at Stannis’s back as the Tyrells stand at Renly’s.

Margaery frowns.

The royal children are fidgeting, bored with having to sit still and quiet, and Cersei is looking out over the crowd with her usual disdain. That is, until she sees Margaery, or perhaps Loras at her side. Loras doesn’t even notice, but Margaery tips her chin up and refuses to cower. In all her plans for this new life, Cersei Lannister is the one constant. She won’t underestimate the woman again, neither her cruelty nor her will to get her own way. Whoever Margaery chooses to ally herself with, Cersei will be the first to fall.

The Queen’s lip curls in a sneer, matching Margaery’s defiance.

Their staring match is only broken when Robert bangs his armored fist on the throne, the clang or metal on metal echoing through the hall, silencing the whispers. 

Margaery has to fight to keep her expression serene. She’s sure he has a good reason to be wearing armor, like how uncomfortable the throne is with all those sharp edges, and this isn’t a sign of violence to come. Surely.

“I have called you all here today to stand witness,” King Robert says. “I won a war and this throne along with the kingdom of Westeros and its most beautiful woman.”

Cersei’s smile looks more like a grimace as Robert looks her way, and Margaery feels ill. Complimenting Cersei? Maybe he’s simply gone mad. The throne does seem to bring that out in men.

“In doing so, I was forced to put aside my duty to Storm’s End, and to the people of the Stormlands as Lord Paramount, to take up a new, greater duty to Westeros as a whole. It was not a decision I made lightly; always have the Stormlands been close to my heart. But I could not ignore the needs of Seven Kingdoms in favor of one, and I took up that duty willingly, and my line and the future of Westeros is secure.” He looks now to his children, who look stiff and uncomfortable in their formal wear. Tommen struggles to hide a yawn.

Margaery isn’t sure what to make of this extraordinary speech. If Grandmother’s information is accurate--and it always is--King Robert left the Stormlands as a boy and didn’t even return to lift the siege of his home castle and rescue his brothers, leaving that to Lord Stark. And she would hardly say that his reign is secure, even without considering the truth of his so-called legacy. The Greyjoy rebellion was only a few short years ago, after all.

“But of course I could not simply abandon my home and my people. I left their future to men I knew would value it, men I could trust.” He looks down at his brothers from his throne. “And they have failed.”

Stannis’s spine, if possible, goes even straighter. 

Renly ducks his head, twin spots of red appearing in his cheeks. 

Oh gods.

“Where is the future of the Stormlands?” Robert demands, as Renly hunches his shoulders and tries to disappear. “Where is the legacy of our House?”

Renly doesn’t say anything.

Robert lets the moment stretch, and has the audacity to look past Renly, and make eye contact with Loras. “Our seed is strong,” he says, “but only a fool tills barren earth.”

Rage bubbles in Margaery’s chest, though none of it shows on her face. She gropes for Loras’s hand under cover of her full skirts. Whatever happens next, she will stand by her family, and they her. If Robert thinks he can humiliate them with this, he has severely underestimated House Tyrell. 

Then Robert looks away, dismissing Renly and House Tyrell entirely, focusing the entirety of his attention on Stannis. “Speaking of barren earth.”

Behind Stannis, his wife starts to tremble.

Oh  _ gods _ .

“I have a son for Westeros,” Robert says, and Joffrey puffs his chest up. “I have a son for Storm’s End, as Renly couldn’t even manage that much. You will do your duty to your title and bannermen, and produce a son for Dragonstone.”

“I have an heir,” Stannis says, tall and proud and unwavering, even as Shireen tucks herself against his side, wide eyes darting from Stannis to Robert and back. He doesn’t move to embrace her, but she seems comforted nonetheless.

Margaery is not comforted. She’s not sure even Stannis Baratheon can weather this siege.

Behind him, Lady Baratheon is pale as a ghost.

“A girl,” Robert says, contemptuous, dismissive.

Stannis, normally so expressionless and dull, looks like he wants to start a fight, which is a terrible idea but makes Margaery think better of him.

“This is not a suggestion,” Robert says. “As your elder brother and your king, I dissolve your union to your wife. Under my direction and guidance you’ll pick another, more suitable Lady of Dragonstone, and you will produce an heir to continue our great line. A  _ male _ heir, because heirs are male. Do I make myself clear?”

The hall is stiflingly quiet. 

“I swore an oath,” Stannis says, his voice steady but with a line of steel through it. “I took vows before men and gods.”

“And I will bring you to the Sept to release them, as is proper. Further, I will give you the use of the Great Hall to hold court with your suitors. You have three weeks, or I will choose for you.”

For a terrible moment, Margaery thinks Stannis might actually charge the throne. She grips Loras’s hand tight, afraid for the violence that might break out, and prepared to run. She will not be caught again and she will not allow him to be, either. 

Jaime Lannister, resplendent in his Kingsguard armor, rests his hand on his sword, a warning. 

Stannis stares down the Lannister, then his brother. “I took a vow,” he repeats. “I gave my word.”

“You also swore to honor and obey your king,” Robert says. “Will you honor  _ those  _ vows?”

No one in the hall breathes as they wait for Stannis’s answer. 

Slowly, he drops to one knee. Lady Baratheon gasps and covers her open mouth as tears rise up in her eyes. Margaery has no great fondness for the woman, after her morning with Shireen, but she can’t help but feel for her, cast out so publicly.

“My king,” Stannis grits out before he stands and storms out of the room. 

Ser Davos shepherds Shireen and Lady Baratheon out past the gaping crowd, and no sooner are they out of sight than Renly sketches a hasty bow and an equally hasty departure. 

Cersei smirks from her position behind the King, glorying as always in the misery of others. She’s the only one in that vast room who looks at all pleased. 

#

“This is horse shit,” Loras says once they’re back in Renly’s room.

“Not so loud,” Margaery says, futilely.

“Horse shit!”

Renly sits at his small table, a pitcher of wine in front of him. He hasn’t mustered up the energy to pour a glass yet.

“He can’t humiliate you like this,” Loras says, taking Renly’s hands in his own.

“He told the entire Court I won’t have children. I mean, anyone who knows me already knows that but…” Renly blows out a slow breath. “It’s one thing for everyone to know, and quite another for them to  _ know _ .”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Loras vows, recklessly. “Never! Not if the whole world stands against you, or one King…”

“Quiet!” Margaery interrupts, before he can say anything truly suicidal. “Don’t finish that sentence!”

“They don’t know,” Grandmother says, making them all jump. It’s not often one forgets the Queen of Thorns is present. “It was all implication, nothing has changed.”

“Yeah,” Renly says after a long moment. “You’re right. It’s Stannis who’s screwed here. I mean, traditionally it’s a prince who gets Dragonstone, not Storm’s End. That’s how the Targaryens did it, anyway.”

“We will perhaps not suggest that to His Grace,” Grandmother says dryly.

“Yeah, he hates the Targaryens, and he’s being even more of an ass than usual,” Renly says.

Loras looks like he might agree, so Margaery steps on his foot. This whole conversation is indiscreet enough as it is.

“He’s never done anything like this before,” Renly says, looking as serious as Margaery has ever seen him. “I mean, there’s no love lost, especially between him and Stannis, but to force him to set aside his vows…” He shakes his head. “Well, at least he might get a pretty wife out of this whole--ow!”

“None of that,” Grandmother says, like she hasn’t just smacked the king’s brother and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands like a disobedient puppy. “Show some respect.”

“Yes, my lady,” Renly says penitently. 

Margaery raises an eyebrow.

“So once again Stannis is left to carry this gods-forsaken family on his shoulders,” Renly says, scowling. I’d feel bad for him if I didn’t think he got off on the responsibility.”

“Renly,” Loras admonishes with a look at Margaery.

Margaery rolls her eyes. As if she hasn’t heard worse before. As if she hasn’t  _ said  _ worse. 

“I think you’re being a bit melodramatic,” Margaery says. “King Robert’s wrath will ease. Your brother Stannis will fulfill his duties as he always has. And you have been given permission to live your life as you see fit, in the company of the man who loves you.”

Renly stops staring at his empty glass to stare at Loras, eyes wide. “Love?”

“Uh,” Loras says.

Margaery huffs.

“This is one of those things you’re supposed to let them figure out on their own,” Grandmother chides, leading her discreetly out. 

#

There are rumors that Stannis had a private audience with the King, where he begged on his knees to keep his wife. The King is said to have laughed. 

Of course, there are also rumors that Eddard Stark is riding south to King’s Landing to offer his eldest daughter to Stannis.

Margaery doesn’t put much stock in rumors.

She does learn that Stannis’s (former) wife is called Lady Selyse, as her name is on everyone’s tongue now that she is Lady Selyse Florent once more.

She watches Ser Davos try to tempt Shireen off the bench she’s made her home. The girl doesn’t budge, lying on the slab of stone, her eyes fixed on the ground. Margaery does not intrude on her grief; it would not be… appropriate… considering the direction of her thoughts.

“Who do you think Stannis will marry?” Margaery asks Grandmother over breakfast, the day before Stannis’s “courting period” begins.

Lady Olenna looks up from her pastry, narrowing her eyes. “No one.”

“But the King said he’d choose if Stannis didn’t.”

“It’s all a game to Robert, he’ll make another son for Dragonstone, assuming he even cares about that dank old pile of rocks in the first place. Or he’ll legitimize one of the boys he already has. This isn’t really about Dragonstone, or legacies, as I’m sure you know.”

Margaery nods; she does.

“And the game is this: Stannis Baratheon is brother of the king, lord of a great keep, he is just and honorable and there has never been even the whisper of a rumor that he’s mistreated a servant or a bannerman or even his sickly, barren wife. By all accounts he should be an ideal match.” Lady Olenna shakes her head. “But he is hated by his brother the king, his keep is dark and gloomy, his personality stern and humorless. And look how his last wife was treated. No, Robert will parade a few wholly unsuitable candidates before him, just to make this all the more humiliating, and no one respectable will dare to put their daughters forward.”

“It seems we are of one mind on this, Grandmother.”

Margaery has the singular experience of having the entirety of Lady Olenna Tyrell’s attention.

“What are you thinking, child?”

“That I imagine Lord Stannis must be quite cross with his brother.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. And everyone knows that. What’s going on in that crafty head of yours?”

“I think House Tyrell should put their daughter forward.”

It’s not often Grandmother is surprised. Margaery is going to cherish this memory.

“It can’t hurt to cultivate  _ two  _ allies,” Margaery says serenely.

“Don’t talk nonsense, girl.”

“I’m not. Loras has Renly well in hand. It would be wasteful for me to dedicate myself to securing him as well.” And they’re happy, though Margaery isn’t sure how persuasive Grandmother will find that point.

“But  _ Stannis _ ?”

Margaery folds her hands. She won’t waste the effort bringing Stannis around if Grandmother can’t be persuaded. “You said yourself that he was a good prospect.”

“I also said he was a terrible prospect. He’s a stern man, utterly lacking in the warmth and companionship you deserve.”

“We will have our whole lives together for me to persuade him otherwise.”

“Hmph. If the king allows it.”

“Lord Stannis will fight for me, and I will fight for myself. There wouldn’t be a repeat of recent events, because I won’t allow it. House Florent is respectable enough, but it’s no House Tyrell.”

“Even if we were to make an offer, he would never accept it,” Grandmother says. “Stannis hates your father, and by extension our family. He  _ did _ almost starve to death because of us.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“That’s not the sort of thing one forgets. And he won’t be swayed by your beauty or charms.”

“So we emphasize the practical. It’s a good match on paper. And as for the presentation… he’s a proud man. He won’t appreciate three weeks as the least desirable husband in Westeros. If we can convince him it’s a sincere offer…”

“Hmm.” Grandmother sniffs, but she’s considering it. “You don’t need to do this. Highgarden will prosper whether there is a Tyrell on the throne or not. And… your happiness is of concern to me.”

Margaery is touched. “I know that. I’ve taken that into consideration, believe me. But you were there. You’ve seen our King, and our Queen. The  _ realm _ won’t prosper as long as they’re on the throne, and Highgarden is a part of the realm.”

“It could never be with Stannis as we planned with Renly,” Grandmother says, unwilling to speak treason outright even though they’re alone in a deserted part of the gardens.

“I know that.” She wouldn’t waste her breath trying to talk Stannis into treason, but she won’t have to.

“You’ve thought of something,” Grandmother says, eyes narrowing. “You know something I don’t.”

Margaery shrugs, trying not to look as smug as she feels. Some might call it cheating, but she’ll take any advantage in out-sneaking Grandmother.

“Convince me that I can trust him with you,” Grandmother says. “What makes you think that he has a heart?”

Margaery sips her tea, sensing victory. “Have you been introduced to the Lady Shireen?”

#

“I will speak to your father,” Grandmother says, later that afternoon.

It’s as good as done.

#

“He thinks he’s protecting you,” Grandmother says that night, after Father stubbornly and uncharacteristically put his foot down. “And I think his own pride is stung at being bested by a boy back during the war.”

Margaery scowls.

“He’s always been short-sighted,” Grandmother says. “I’ll see that he comes around, don’t fret.”

#

Margaery frets.

The “courtship” is proceeding exactly as Margaery and Grandmother predicted. King Robert has insisted that Stannis present himself in a room set aside just for this purpose for six hours every day, three in the morning and three in the afternoon. In all that time, no one has approached him, leaving him to sit at the head of a long, empty table and seethe.

Robert has offered him Asha Greyjoy, daughter of a hated traitor and heir to a greater keep than Dragonstone, so Stannis would have to leave his home and marry into hers. It was suggested that Stannis also take her name. By Robert. To his face.

He was also offered the younger Stark girl, who is yet a child, younger than Shireen. Margaery is pretty sure that was a joke, and in any event hopes Lord Stark never learns of it. Stannis did not deign to respond.

Grandmother can clearly see now how Margaery’s plan might work, but Father continues to refuse his blessing, and the whole point of this is to make a formal offer, so it must have a man’s name on it.

_ Men _ .

The only good thing about this whole debacle is that Lady Selyse has been permitted to return to her family, so she no longer has to shuffle about court and endure their mockery. Though this also means that her family and their friends among Robert’s former bannermen are inspired to rally behind her and mutter darkly against their king, which is a mixed blessing. It’s too soon for a civil war to break out, Margaery isn’t ready.

And she’ll never  _ be _ ready if Father continues this  _ ridiculous _ show of independence. The courting period is almost up. It’s time for Margaery to act.

#

“I shall offer myself as I am,” Margaery decides. She takes the pins from her hair and the broach from her dress, then removes the lovely dress with its fine rose embroidery, all the trappings of House Tyrell. 

“My lady,” Dahlia protests. 

Margaery waves her off as she selects her simplest gown, which judging by the fit might not be hers at all, but no matter, and after some consideration leaves her hair loose and natural around her face. There are no rings adorning her fingers, no necklaces clasped around her neck. She is simply Margaery. 

“I have to tell your father,” Dahlia says as Margaery wraps a light scarf around her shoulders, looking pained at this perceived betrayal. 

Margaery forgives her with a kiss. “Give me a head start, hmm?” 

Dahlia laughs, shakes her head, but makes a show of picking up Margaery’s discarded clothes. Very slowly.

That will occupy her for some time, but Margaery doesn’t intend to waste a moment.

By some chance, King Robert is there with Stannis when she arrives. He is bored easily by inactivity, so doesn’t always stay to watch Stannis sitting alone, but he does drop in every now and again. His gaze lingers on Margaery’s figure, even though this is the most modest dress she’s ever worn. He would be easy to seduce, but she quickly discarded that plan. Even if he could be induced to marry her after a seduction, which is doubtful, he is a terrible husband and a terrible king. Let Cersei be miserable with him. Margaery will take the more difficult road, and secure happiness for herself and for Westeros.

Stannis will be a good husband and king, of that she is certain. He wouldn’t be her first choice for a love match, but if she can’t coax that out of him, well, no matter. The world is full of love, and she will find it where she can.

As she approaches the table, she sees that Stannis is not in a particularly receptive mood, fists clenched and teeth grinding as he glares at the table. Robert looks entirely too smug.

Oh dear. She hopes he hasn’t just suggested another wholly unsuitable candidate, that will make her appeal that much harder to take seriously. After a few long moments of Robert leering and Stannis glaring at the table, she realizes that Stannis would hardly be expecting company, under the circumstances.

“Lord Stannis,” she says, a little louder than necessary, and drops into a deep curtsey.

His eyes flick over her briefly in acknowledgment, but do not linger. If he is affected by her as other men are, he hides it well.

“You’re the Tyrell girl,” Stannis says.

Not a promising start, though at least he knows who she is. “I’d say I’m a woman.”

Robert looks like he’s about to swallow his tongue; Stannis just looks suspicious. “I have no interest in games.”

“I’m not here to play games, my lord.” Hmm. Stannis is a man who prizes honesty and bluntness. “I’m here to make you an offer of marriage.”

“I hear your interests lie with my brother.”

_ My brother lies with your brother _ , she thinks but there’s such a thing as  _ too _ much honesty. “He is not ready for marriage, he is still young.”

“So are you.”

“Perhaps in years,” she acknowledges.  _ But I died young and it aged me even though the gods have gifted me with another life.  _ “But I know my own mind and heart. Please accept my suit.”

For a moment the room is completely, utterly silent.

“ _ Why? _ ” Stannis asks finally.

“I want stability and I want security,” Margaery answers promptly.

Stannis makes an aborted noise that might have been a laugh. Which, considering the circumstances, his skepticism is understandable, but she needs to overcome it.

“You are a good man, and an honorable one,” Margaery says.

“I have no interest in an alliance with House Tyrell.”

Well that was rude. And perhaps Father did her a favor after all. “Has my father approached you? Has my grandmother assessed your intentions? I am not here for House Tyrell, I am just Margaery.”

He frowns, having the nerve to look offended. “Your family does not approve.”

“It is a delicate situation,” she says.

He snorts. “Indeed, an offer has already been put forward.”

What?

“His Grace King Robert Baratheon has brought suit on behalf of House Frey, with an offer of their eldest girl.”

Margaery blinks. Considering Lord Frey is nearing ninety, she doubts very much that his eldest daughter is of child-bearing age. He has grandchildren older than she is, possibly older than Stannis himself.

“House Frey is a respected noble house, with good prospects,” Stannis says. “Certainly more to offer than Just Margaery.”

He cannot be serious. “I am a highborn lady, and you are a highborn lord,” she says, a little more heatedly than she intends. “As good a prospect as Lady Frey, or Lady Greyjoy, or Lady Arya. The difference being that I  _ want _ to marry you.”

He’s shocked into silence, but she’s not sure if it’s in a good way.

She needs to regroup. Another man, she would try to use her charms, subtle looks and little smiles, but Stannis is a proud, suspicious man, and has never been known to be swayed by a woman’s charms. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. We are strangers to one another, after all. If I might be so bold, perhaps a walk or a shared meal, will allow us to be better acquainted.” 

“You want me to court you?”

She ducks her head, feigning bashfulness. “I did warn you my request was a bold one.”

He’s going to refuse, she can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders.

And then Robert makes a skeptical noise, unable to contain himself any longer. Margaery could have kissed him.

“Tonight, then,” Stannis says, clenching his jaw.

“Tonight,” Margaery agrees immediately, before he can think better of it. “Shall I meet you somewhere?” 

“I know where your rooms are,” he says. Red creeps up his cheeks, a side of him she hasn’t seen before. “Not that…” He clears his throat. “I only meant that I could pick you up.”

“Of course,” Margaery says. “Would you like me to provide the chaperone for our first outing?”

“Yes. I want to ensure your comfort.”

_ He’s sweet _ , she realizes, surprised but pleased. Knowing she’s pushing her luck, she offers him her hand. “I look forward to tonight, my lord.”

He takes her hand and lifts it to his mouth. His stubble prickles her skin as he lays a brief kiss against it. “Tonight,” he says. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter but I'm sure you won't mind : )

Father is angry, but Margaery doesn’t especially care. He threatens to disown her, which she knows is a bluff, and even if for some reason he does her brother and grandmother will always support her, and then he really will have no say in what she does. 

It’s still irritating, because she knows she’s right, so she goes to find someone sensible. Who isn’t her grandmother.

She finds herself outside Brienne’s quarters. She looks surprised by Margaery’s appearance, but steps aside to let her in anyway. Margaery slips between the woman and the door, and she’s struck by how Brienne isn’t that much smaller out of her armor.

She’s still tall, her shoulders still broad. She takes up space as if she has every right to it. If only  _ Brienne  _ had a claim to the throne. Margaery would  _ definitely _ be able to find happiness with Brienne, and it would be a delight to bring happiness to Brienne as well.

Brienne can’t keep her eyes off of her. “Can I get you a cloak? Part of your dress seems to be missing.”

Margaery smiles fondly. Yes, Brienne would be a good husband. Wife. Either or both. “Part of my plan for the evening. I’m not sure it will do any good, but I suspect I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“Oh?”

“I meant to ask you, could you act as my chaperone tonight? Lord Stannis is taking me out for a meal, or perhaps a walk. It wasn’t clear.”

Brienne is staring, shock written clearly across her face. If only everyone was as open with their feelings as Brienne. “Lord Stannis?”

“He’s courting me. I intend to marry him.”

“But,” Brienne’s mouth twists in a frown. “He-- _ Stannis _ ?”

Margaery laughs, unable to help herself. Just what has she heard about Stannis? “He’s an honorable man. There are many worse choices.”

Brienne’s face suggests that there are many better choices. 

“So will you be our chaperone?” Margaery asks. “I would feel safer with you at my side.”

“I accept,” Brienne says, formality making her stiff again. 

Margaery has hopes for Stannis and Brienne eventually getting along, as they already have something in common; they both take themselves too seriously. Margaery wants to unlock each of their secrets, coax smiles onto their faces. She’s seen Stannis’s warmth with his daughter, and she’s seen Brienne’s love of Renly. Margaery wants their unguarded emotion directed at her as well.

She allows her gaze to linger on Brienne, more comfortable in her quarters than anywhere else, save perhaps the practice grounds. If she hadn’t just asked Brienne to chaperone her first outing with Stannis then she’d be tempted to drag her on an outing of their own. 

“How is Renly?” Margaery asks. “I’m surprised he hasn’t left King’s Landing yet.”

“He’s reluctant to leave Stannis on his own. I think King Robert has done what the past years could not, and brought his two younger brothers together again.”

“I’m glad they’re getting along. Family is important.” Margaery stretches out along the couch. “I’m not interrupting your plans for the afternoon, am I?”

“I trained this morning,” Brienne says. “I hadn’t decided yet how to spend my afternoon.”

“In the company of a friend?” Margaery offers.

Brienne ducks her head but not before Margaery sees her smile. Perhaps there’s time for a small outing after all.

#

Margaery takes a late dinner in her room once it’s clear Stannis won’t be joining her, partly to make certain Stannis knows where to find her, and partly to avoid her family. She still angry with her father and wants him to know it, she doesn’t want to tip her hand to her grandmother too soon (or scare Stannis off), and Loras is the only person who could make her doubt herself.

So she eats with Brienne, and when they’re finished Dahlia brushes her hair until it shines. 

“I can get you another dress if you like,” Dahlia offers, when Margaery shivers.

“I’m not sure. Brienne, what do you think?”

Brienne chokes on her drink. “You’re asking  _ my _ opinion on dresses, my lady?”

“And why not? You have an opinion on whether something is appealing, do you not?”

“Well, I-I suppose.” Brienne looks at her, then blushes and looks at the floor. “You look nice,” she tells the floor.

Well, that is very sweet, and very flattering, but not quite what Margaery was looking for. “I’m sure you’ve heard the same rumors I have, since the court has talked of nothing but Lord Stannis and his marriage for weeks now. He took his vows seriously, but the marriage was not a happy one. I want to give him hope for the future.”

Dahlia laughs behind her hand.

“So.” Margaery gestures to her dress, which is a bit scandalous even by Highgarden standards. “Too much?”

Brienne looks like she’s choking on her tongue.

“The poor man might faint,” Dahlia pronounces.

“Hmm.” Margaery consider this, then sighs. “You’re right. I should ease him into it. Dahlia!”

“I’ve already laid your best dresses out on the bed.”

“Brienne, are you going to stay here and stall Stannis, or help?” Margaery asks, already peeling off her dress.

Brienne looks torn. “Um.”

“Excellent, come help me with these stays. Remember, I want him to promise future, er, marital bliss, but without overwhelming him.”

“We’ll judge by how much Lady Brienne blushes,” Dahlia says slyly.

“Hey!”

“You mean to go through with this?” Dahlia asks quietly, as they try an elaborately embroidered green dress with a modest--well, more modest--neckline. “Even with your father’s disapproval.”

“He’ll come around,” Margaery says. “If not on his own, then with Grandmother’s help.”

Dahlia laughs softly. “As you say, my lady. I hope he makes you happy.”

“I make myself happy. And speaking of, I hope you’ll come with me to my new home.”

“Of course, my lady. I’m honored to be asked.”

They’ve gone through two changes when there’s a knock on the door, and this will just have to do because Margaery very much doubts Stannis is the type to wait while she dithers over outfits. Especially after she basically tricked him into taking her out.

Brienne, bless her, goes to answer the door and attempts to stall him with small talk, which she is terrible at and Stannis is worse. Dahlia gives Margaery’s hair one last pat and sends her into battle.

The conversation has already dried up, no surprise there, and Stannis and Brienne seem to be competing over who can look more uncomfortable.

Margaery offers her hand for a kiss, which only makes Stannis’s spine stiffen even more. It’s a wonder he’s able to bend enough to reach her hand.

She knew his first marriage was arranged, from the court gossip, but she’s revising her opinion of how much time he spent with his betrothed from ‘very little’ to ‘none at all’. This is  _ new  _ to him. 

Dahlia elbows her and Margaery arranges her smile into something a little more gentle and welcoming and a little less predatory.

“My lady,” Stannis says stiffly. “I was caught up in business. Is it too late?”

“Not at all,” Margaery says, even though it is a little bit scandalous to be out this late. If Stannis doesn’t already know, she isn’t going to be the one to tell him. “Brienne will be joining us, so everything will be proper.”

Stannis seems to really notice Brienne for the first time, and Margaery has a brief moment of trepidation before he nods, the same sort of nod any fighting man might give another. “Of course.”

Margaery is surprised by the warmth she feels towards him in that moment. Even Loras was completely unreasonable about a woman who could fight.

Brienne’s tense posture and expression thaws. Slightly.

“Shall we go?” Margaery asks. “What are your plans for the night?”

“I’ve heard, that is, people have mentioned that you enjoy the gardens.” Stannis braces himself as if he expects Margaery, or maybe Brienne or Dahlia, to mock him.

Margaery wants to know who he asked about her interests; she can’t imagine it’s something he’s had cause to do often, inquiring after the habits of young ladies. But she wants to reward his good behavior, not make him even more self-conscious, so instead she picks up a light shawl and drapes it over her shoulders. Stannis offers her his arm and she delicately places her hand on the crook of his elbow. 

He escorts her down to one of the less frequented gardens as Brienne trails behind them. She does her best to give them space, but she’s a tall woman who’s heavy on her feet and even with the space she looms.

“Not many people walk in this garden,” Margaery says as Stannis leads them through the hedges which mark the entrance. There’s still enough lingering light in the sky for them to see the path, and Margaery pauses by a large white lilac bush. She leans in to inhale the fragrance. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

Stannis touches the white flowers with hesitant fingers as if he’s afraid he’ll break them somehow. “I admit I am surprised at the hardiness of some plants. These are far from home, yet they still thrive.”

“Flowers are more resilient than they’re given credit for.” Margaery leans closer to Stannis. He leans back. With an inaudible sigh, she nudges him towards the path again. “Do you have gardens like these at Dragonstone?”

“There isn’t much at Dragonstone,” Stannis says, sounding annoyed. Clearly this is not a good topic. “Mostly rock. And dragon statues, plenty of those.”

She can feel him begin to pull away so she holds tight to his arm. “You could always bring some lilacs with you when you return. You can create gardens which rival the ones in King’s Landing.”

“And the gardens of Highgarden?”

Margaery smiles, trying to get him to smile back. She thinks his frown might be marginally less severe. “You might need several summers before you can achieve that.”

They manage to limp their way through small talk the rest of their one turn about the garden, with Margaery doing most of the work as she expected, but overall it’s a very promising start. He’s awkward, but not completely unwilling. A very promising start indeed.

Stannis insists on walking her back to her room which is both sweet and means she has to wait until she’s sure he’s gone before she goes down the hall to her father’s room. Brienne trails behind her, as if uncertain if a chaperone is still required.

Margaery isn’t sure either, so she doesn’t argue. 

When her father’s servant, Elmwood, opens the door, he barely has time to announce her before Margaery sweeps by him.

“Margaery?” her father asks.

Margaery sprawls dramatically across his couch. “I think I’m in love,” she says.

Brienne chokes and tries to cover it up with a cough and only succeeds in drawing unwanted attention to herself. 

“In love?” Father repeats, hesitant but not hostile. Probably doesn’t know what she’s talking about, yet.

“Lord Stannis took me on a tour of the Lilac Gardens,” she says. “He asked around to see what I would like, can you believe it?”

Father sputters.

“Oh!” She sits up straighter as if an idea has just occurred to her. “Do you suppose he might have feelings for the same as I have for him?”

“Feelings? Feelings!? There are no feelings, you’ve known him for less than a month! You’ve never even spoken to him!” A pause. “What do you mean he took you on a tour of the gardens?”

“He made an offer of courtship and I accepted. Well, I suppose I made the offer first. But we are courting now. Maybe he’ll take me into the city next time.”

“ _ Next time _ ?”

Her poor father’s face is as red as if he’s one more comment away from bursting like an overripe tomato. 

She gentles her voice and lowers her eyes as she says, “I am quite fond of him, father. I know there is bad blood between our houses, but let me repair the relationship. Let me bring our houses together and, in doing so, make both of us stronger.”

“Margaery,” her father reaches for her before he drops his hand. “I just want you to be happy.”

That isn’t true of course, he’s a lord even if Grandmother does most of the actual ruling, but she appreciates that he’d say it, and that he does place some value on her happiness. “Thank you, Father. I am happy.”

He does not look like believes her. “Stannis is a stern man with few joys.”

“Then let me be one of them.” 

“Dragonstone is a dank hole.”

_ But I won’t be Lady of Dragonstone. I will be Queen of Westeros _ . 

“What better bride for the Lord of Dragonstone than a woman who can bring life with her.” Margaery slides off the couch so she can clasp her father’s hand between both of hers. “I know your history with Stannis is complicated, but I am your child, your future. Please, all I ask of you is this one thing.”

He draws her in and brushes her hair out of her face. “As if this is a small request you make of me.”

Margaery’s never had a close relationship with her father. She was raised by her grandmother, Lady Olenna’s influence to be seen in more of her actions and even more of her mannerisms. 

“Continue your courtship with my blessing,” Father says at last. “I make no promises on more.”

Margaery kisses her father’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

A chance is all she needs. 

#

Loras finds her the next day as she lingers by the practice rings to watch the knights battle. Brienne hasn’t been invited. These knights should be so lucky to have such an opponent, but she will leave that fight for another day. She sits under a shaded tent, Dahlia at her side. Loras drops into the chair next to her, his legs thrown over the armrest. 

“Always such a child,” Margaery drawls.

Loras grins and shakes his hair out of his eyes.

“I’m surprised you’re not down there,” Margaery says. 

“Tomorrow. I strained something sparring with Renly.”

Margaery scoffs. 

“It’s true!” Loras sighs as she outright laughs at him. “Renly tells me that Stannis is courting you.”

“I am an eligible woman, and he is now in search of a wife.”

“I don’t understand you,” Loras says.

“I can’t compete with you for Renly’s heart,” Margaery says. “And I wouldn’t want to. There is no competition for Stannis’s. I think I will make him happy.”

“And what about you?” Loras asks. “Will you be happy?”

“Of course.”

Loras looks skeptical but he says, “How can I help?” and that’s why he’s Margaery’s favorite brother.

#

Stannis does bring her into the city, on their fourth outing, and Brienne accompanies them as she always does. Margaery allows herself to be led to the merchant district, and she stops at the first vendor, from distant Braavos, and holds up a colorful silk scarf. She wraps it around her bare shoulders and slants a look at Stannis. 

“What do you think?” she asks.

It’s vibrant gold and orange with red splashed in, a setting sun captured in a simple garment. Stannis’s furrowed brow makes her laugh as she hangs it back where she found it.

“Too loud?” she guesses. She trails her fingers over something blue and green, colors swirling like the ocean during a storm.

Stannis doesn’t look completely horrified, so she plucks this one off its hook. 

“The colors are nice,” Stannis offers, the words sounding as if they’re dragged out of him.

Margaery holds the end of the scarf out to him. “Feel it,” she says.

He rubs his fingers over the fabric. It feels like the whisper of the wind, tickling against her skin. She wonders what it would feel like over more than just her shoulders. 

She returns it to its place and takes Stannis’s hand and brings him to the next kiosk. She looks her fill at the fashions and fabrics brought from all corners of the kingdom then, when she feels Stannis’s patience is nearing its end, she turns him down a new alley and they walk until they find the food carts. 

“This one is my favorite,” Margaery says, spotting two familiar children hawking their parents’ wares.

She buys a stick of meat for each of them, and it’s richly smoked and has a sprinkling of spice that brings a look of surprise to Stannis’s face.

“This is good,” he says. He stares at it then the two children as if trying to figure it out.

The little girl smiles and takes a second stick and offers it to Stannis.

He buys three more.

Margaery smiles the whole walk back to the palace.

#

It takes four long weeks of courtship before Father finally relents and gives his blessing, and another two before Stannis will meet with him to accept it. They nearly break each other’s hands, but that will just have to be good enough, because King Robert’s patience appears to have reached its end or, more likely, he grows frustrated that his plan has backfired and Stannis has found a suitable bride.

Either way, King Robert demands an engagement announcement, and House Tyrell and Stannis Baratheon are on speaking terms, sort of, and by that evening Margaery and Stannis are officially engaged. 

“What does that mean?” Shireen asks.

They’re back in the gardens, Shireen, Margaery, and Ser Davos. Margaery has seen a lot of Ser Davos these past few weeks, in part because he seems to constantly be near Stannis, and in part because they ‘just happen’ to run into one another several times a day.

Margaery chooses to be glad that Stannis has someone who cares for him so diligently, otherwise she might find it annoying.

She’s seen less of Shireen, because she thought it would be tacky to manipulate such a sweet young girl in her efforts to win over her father, and also because Ser Davos made it a point to keep the two of them apart for the duration of the courtship.

But now they will be family.

“It means that soon I will be your second mother,” Margaery says. “You are a lucky girl to have two mothers and a father to love you.”

“You would love me?” Shireen asks, uncharacteristically shy. “Even though…” she trails off but doesn’t quite keep herself from brushing her fingers over her scarred face.

Margaery catches Shireen’s hands and holds them in hers. “I already do,” she says. 

“Oh.” Shireen smiles. “Father has a present for you. He told me I’m not allowed to tell you what it is.”

Margaery laughs and scoots closer. “A present? Well, I shall have to get something for him, as well. Would you help me pick something he’d like?”

“He likes  _ you _ ,” Shireen says.

Ser Davos coughs and looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“I think our womanly talk is too much for your poor Onion Knight,” Margaery whispers, loud enough that Ser Davos is meant to hear. “Perhaps we should talk of swords and horses and jousting instead.”

“My father likes ships,” Shireen says.

Gifting him a ship from the Redwyne fleet  _ might  _ be in poor taste. “I don’t know much about ships, I don’t know if I could choose a good one,” Margaery says.

Shireen slides off the bench and tugs on Margaery’s hands. “I know something even better.”

Margaery grins and allows Shireen to tug her out of the gardens. Ser Davos hurries to follow as they wind their way through the palace until they reach a courtyard Margaery has never seen before, with a very small market inside. It all looks outrageously expensive, but the poor girl probably still hasn’t been allowed outside the palace walls, and somehow Margaery doesn’t think she’ll be buying a lot of expensive gifts for Stannis. She can afford to spend outrageously this one time.

Shireen clearly has a destination in mind and it doesn’t take her long to find a stand selling exquisitely crafted glass spheres with carvings inside. There are tiny depictions of the palace, King’s Landing, the frozen North, what might be Storm’s End, and even a recreation of Old Valyria. When the merchant catches them staring, he shakes one of the Northern globes and snow falls over Winterfell.

“Oh,” Margaery says, enchanted.

“The ladies have exquisite taste,” the merchant says, sensing a sale.

Shireen points to a sphere swirled with blue and white crashing waves, a perfect miniature ship frozen forever in the crest of a wave.

“You think he’ll like it?” Margaery asks. It’s lovely, but she doesn’t think that’s something Stannis cares about.

“He loves the sea, but you can’t put that in a box,” Shireen says practically. “This is the next best thing.”

“You’re very smart,” Margaery says, ruffling her hair. She buys it, because it will make Shireen happy and she truly doesn’t have any better ideas, though she doesn’t hold out much hope that Stannis will actually like it. So far he has shown zero interest in anything decorative.

They linger at the stall, admiring the many other offerings. Shireen is particularly enamored with the Valyria sphere, complete with tiny dragons inside. 

“Do you think we’ll ever see dragons again?” Shireen asks. “There are statues at Dragonstone.”

“If we’re lucky, we never will,” Ser Davos says. “The dragons have been gone a long time, and the world is better for it.”

Shireen looks sad for a moment before she shrugs. “The statues always frightened me,” she says. “And I can read about dragons whenever I want. I think I would be frightened, seeing them for real.”

“You are a very practical girl,” Margaery says. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Shireen puffs up as if this is the greatest compliment she can receive. Given her father, she probably believes it is. 

When they finally leave, Margaery’s gift wrapped carefully so it won’t break, Ser Davos leaves Shireen in her quarters with her handmaiden and insists on walking Margaery back to her rooms.

“You are gallant, Ser Knight,” Margaery says, “but this is unnecessary.”

“I disagree.”

He walks a little too close, but not in a suggestive way, more like he’s escorting a prisoner. She doesn’t care for it. She already loves Shireen and her respect for Stannis is growing faster than she’d ever hoped, but she still struggles to relate to this third person in Stannis’s life. It’s clear she’ll have to, that he is important to Stannis, but that doesn’t mean she has to tolerate this rude and, frankly, a little frightening behavior. She should have asked Brienne to accompany them. Next time she will. 

She pushes open her door, offering him her most polite smile and best curtsey--courtesy is a lady’s armor, as she learned at Grandmother’s knee--and is truly alarmed when he lingers in the doorway.

Dahlia, who had been sitting by the window and stitching, tenses and rises to her feet. Much as she loves Dahlia, Margaery can’t help but wish Brienne were here instead.

“Whatever game you’re playing with Stannis, he is an adult man, and it is his choice whether he plays it with you,” Ser Davos says. “But Shireen is a child who has already endured more cruelty than anyone should in their lifetime. Don’t add to it.”

Margaery tries not to be offended, reminding herself that it’s a good thing that Stannis and Shireen have someone who cares for them, and that she had--briefly--considered using Shireen to get to Stannis. Though she would never have been  _ cruel _ .

And Ser Davos is still blocking the door.

“I’m not playing any game,” Margaery says, firmly. “I truly do mean to marry Stannis, and I have every reason to believe that he will be a good husband, as I shall endeavor to be the a good wife and mother in turn. Your concern is noted, but misplaced.”

Margaery means to be treated with respect in this new life she is building for herself, and she will make sure that Ser Davos understands that.

“Dahlia, it has been a long day, and I should like a bath.”

“Of course, my lady,” Dahlia says.

They both look at Ser Davos, expectant.

There’s a tense moment, then he bows. “I take my leave of you, then.”

As soon as he’s out of the doorway, Margaery shuts the door firmly and latches it. She follows Dahlia to the washroom where the running water protects their conversation from anyone who might be trying to overhear.

“Did he threaten you, my lady?” Dahlia asks, deft fingers undoing Margaery’s laces.

She hadn’t actually meant to take a bath, just get rid of Ser Davos, but now that she thinks about it, a bath would be a great comfort. “Not exactly, but close enough. He worries that I am toying with Stannis and Shireen, but that does not give him the right to treat me disrespectfully.”

“Of course not, my lady. As if you would harm that child, or any child.” Dahlia doesn’t roll her eyes but it’s a close thing.

“No.” Margaery shimmies out of the last of her clothes and takes her gift for Stannis and carefully sets it in a corner in a nest of towels, where it won’t break. 

When she stands up again, Dahlia is watching her shamelessly. 

“May I?” Margaery asks. She’s careful always to ask.

Dahlia turns so Margaery can untie her dress. “He doesn’t know you at all, my lady.”

“Let’s not talk about him anymore,” Margaery says, running her hands over Dahlia’s slight shoulders, pale skin smooth to the touch.

Dahlia sighs and leans back, resting her arms over Margaery’s and guiding her hands along her sides.

“No one needs us until supper,” Margaery says, her voice a whisper in Dahlia’s ear even though they don’t need to be quiet. 

Dahlia tilts her head to expose the long line of her neck. Margaery presses one kiss there, then another and another until Dahlia trembles in her arms. 

“Supper is a lo-long way away,” Dahlia says.

“Are you worried you don’t have the stamina for it?” Margaery teases. Her fingers slip between Dahlia’s legs. “I could draw it out. Surely only coming once won’t tire you out.”

“Oh,” Dahlia breathes which isn’t a no but isn’t the yes Margaery’s looking for either.

“Your choice,” Margaery says. “As many times as you can before supper or as few. Which would you like?”

“Oh,” Dahlia says again, high, word broken in two by a moan.

Margaery grins and abandons the bath. This is  _ much _ more relaxing.

#

The Renly-and-Highgarden table is now also the Stannis-and-family table, with Grandmother keeping a close eye on Father at one end lest another war break out. Margaery sits in the middle, the bridge between the two families, with Loras on one side and Stannis on the other. Since Renly always sits with Loras, the two brothers are close enough to converse if they’re loud enough. They seldom do, but Margaery likes to think the silence is not as weighted as it has been in the past.

Shireen sits with Ser Davos on the other end, which denies Margaery the pleasure of her company, but she still isn’t sure what to make of Ser Davos so it’s for the best. She does wish that she could offer Shireen some company more her age, but they didn’t bring any young people with them from Highgarden, and while Princess Myrcella would be an ideal companion, Shireen is afraid that she’ll come with Joffrey and Margaery is afraid that she’ll come with Cersei.

Margaery does consider sending for some companions once her situation is a little more official, but she’s not sure how to present the idea to Stannis without appearing to criticize his parenting (or, if she’s honest, actually criticizing his parenting. It baffles her sometimes that Shireen is such a bright, happy girl).

Hopefully there are other children at Dragonstone and she’s overestimating the issue. Or she’ll get pregnant right away. Well, when she’s Queen she can send for all the companions Shireen could ever wish for. Perhaps Sansa would be interested?

Though just now she has more important concerns. Namely, the whispers she’s heard of Robert’s plans for the wedding and bedding. Because it’s Stannis, she’ll have to lead in to the topic carefully, assuming he even knows the truth. He doesn’t listen to gossip, and Robert is just as likely to keep him in the dark out of spite as tell him anything.

“Are we to stay in King’s Landing after our wedding?” Margaery asks as she sips at her wine. She’s careful not to overindulge with Stannis beside her. His opinion on drunkenness and excess is well known. “I know you have a position on the Small Council.”

“For a time. I have many responsibilities here, but I have no intention of raising a child in this city.”

“A brief time, then,” Margaery says with a smile.

Stannis blinks, considers what he’s just said, and stiffens.

Margaery tries not to sigh.

“That was quite forward of me,” he says. “I apologize.”

“We can plan for our wedding but not what comes after?” Margaery asks. She places a tentative hand on Stannis’s arm. “If you are afraid of tempting the gods then I understand, but if you are afraid of offending my ears then you needn’t be. I’m to be your wife. I know what that entails.”

There are twin spots of red on Stannis’s cheeks and he determinedly does not meet her gaze. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation for dinner.”

“Of course.” Margaery draws her hand back and settles it in her lap. He really is very prudish. She’s made almost no headway in getting him to admire her body, and was concerned enough to discreetly interrogate Renly on whether Stannis even desires women at all. Renly believes that he does, though he couldn’t provide a single story of youthful indiscretion to support this.

She’ll just have to be patient, and hope for the best. And maybe get him to relax, somehow.

Because she’s not actually very patient, she suggests a walk after dinner and leads him to the Lilac Garden, a place they’ve successfully had an outing and therefore one he will hopefully feel comfortable in.

Brienne is standing guard several strides away, probably not truly out of earshot but close enough to pretend. Margaery hasn’t made the mistake of going anywhere without Brienne again, though there hasn’t been a repeat of the doorway incident.

“It’s no longer dinner,” Margaery says bluntly. If she tries to approach the topic with any delicacy they’ll be here all night, so she doesn’t bother. “Now may we talk about our wedding night?”

Margaery pretends not to hear Brienne choking. 

Stannis physically flinches away, which is not a promising start. 

Must she do everything herself? He’s acting like a blushing maiden, which Robert’s mockery aside can’t possibly be true; he does have a daughter. “I’m nervous of the… the bedding.”

He looks ready to fling himself into the Blackwater Bay, which even for Stannis is a bit much. He must have heard, and it must be true. “Th-this is--”

“I know, it’s indecent,” Margaery says, a little more sharply than she means to. She lowers her eyes demurely, puts a tremble in her voice. “But an audience?”

Stannis benefits greatly from very clear, not-at-all-subtle emotional cues. He finally realizes that he’s not the only one panicking, and puts out a hand to comfort her, instantly more at ease now that he has something to do. Excellent. “The King is… quite insistent. He’s ordered a bedding in the old way, with-with witnesses.” He grits his teeth. “I would spare you this if I could. The audience will be small, at least.”

She clasps his hand and draws him in closer. He’s  _ finally _ starting to relax a little, which considering the topic is nothing short of a miracle; this was definitely the right note to take with him, to let him comfort her. “I-I just don’t want to embarrass you with my-” she forces a blush “-inexperience. What if I’m bad at it?”

She chances a look up at him, and Stannis’s expression is the most unguarded she’s ever seen it. There’s concern and protectiveness a tangle of other emotions in his face. “Don’t concern yourself with that, my lady,” he says.

“But I want to be a good wife,” Margaery says, daring to press closer. “I want to please you.”

“You will,” he says, hoarsely. He’s so tense it has to be painful, but he doesn’t pull away, so that’s something. “You are… a beautiful woman, I’m sure you will be… very pleasing.  _ I- _ ” He clenches his fist and stops talking.

She waits, but he doesn’t continue. He’s saying the things she wanted to lead him to in this conversation, but she can’t help but feel dissatisfied. Like things are still unsettled.

Mostly she wants him to be as angry as she is that Robert would  _ dare _ to invoke bedding customs that haven’t been used since his  _ precious Targaryens _ sat the throne, and even then only for the royal family, when succession was at issue. She is going to be so vindictively satisfied when she reveals to him that that is truer than he knows. Her entire family has already volunteered to avoid the ceremony, for her sake, and Renly as well.

If only she could insist on the same from Cersei. But she can’t, so she won’t give that hateful bitch the satisfaction of seeing her shamed. She’s sure Cersei was involved in this somehow. 

But anger with no outlet is too impractical for Stannis Baratheon, she suspects. So she’ll have to settle for begrudging cooperation and an absence of outright panic.

“Our wedding night is not for us,” Stannis finally says, which doesn’t sound like he’s continuing his previous thought, but at least he hasn’t completely shut her out.

“We’ll make it be for us,” she says.

He looks at her like she’s the naive one. “There will be other times,” he says, almost a question, which, there will  _ definitely _ be  _ many _ other times if she has anything to say about it. “We’ll have many years together.”

“Happy years, I hope,” Margaery says. He sounds as if marriage is a death sentence, which is honestly a little offensive, but she tries to remind herself that his previous experience with marriage was quite miserable. Not that hers was much better, but she has faith that together they can achieve something better than both their previous experiences. After all, they could hardly do worse.

“Of course,” Stannis says.

Margaery leans into his side and drops the topic of their wedding night. This will have to be good enough.

#

Just because she doesn’t mention it to Stannis again doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about it. With Tommen, she visited him at night, seducing him before they were even married because she was waging a war for his affection with his mother. 

Doing the same with Stannis would spectacularly backfire even if she thinks it would be good for him to get some practice learning her body before he’s expected to perform in front of half the court. She’s nowhere near as convinced as he is that the ‘small’ audience will stay small. 

She’d always expected that she’ll have to coach him, but less proud men than Stannis Baratheon would be ashamed to be too obviously led about by a woman when others are watching, especially when ‘others’ includes their infamously virile older brother.

She contemplates asking Dahlia to visit him, but Renly was quite firm in his belief that Stannis went to his first marriage a virgin and barely even looked at a woman after. Including his wife.  It’s probably too much to ask that he would do the sensible thing now, with a noble marriage on the horizon. It’s all terribly frustrating.

Her wedding day is three days away when Loras finds her by the water’s edge. Brienne’s further down the beach, giving her her space. Everyone’s been giving her space recently, especially Stannis. She could scream.

“Stannis spoke with Renly this morning,” Loras says. “You were right about him panicking. Did you know that the last time he got married, he took his wife to their bedchamber on their wedding night, only to find Robert already there having sex with her cousin?”

Well, that puts some of Robert’s more pointed comments about ‘making sure Stannis did it right’ in a horrifying new light. “I should be surprised,” Margaery says, “but I’m really not.”

“He’s asking Renly for advice.”

Margaery’s pretty sure her jaw drops. “...on bedding women?”

Loras shrugs. “Desperation, I guess. Gods know he’s not going to ask Robert.”

“This is going to be awful,” Margaery concludes.

“Probably.”

“If he were a different man then I’d suggest we practice but…” she shrugs a shoulder. 

Loras nods. “Perhaps Robert will drink too much and pass out.”

“Perhaps he’ll drink too much and offer commentary.”

Loras winces. “Is it too late for a destination wedding? I hear Dorne is nice this time of year.”

Margaery laughs. “It will all be over soon. Even if it’s as humiliating as my worst imaginings, he’s too honorable to stray so he’ll eventually return to my bed out of sheer sexual frustration. If I play up the blushing maiden angle any further I’ll have to cry, and no one wants that. We’ll just have to endure.”

A number of expressions fight for dominance on Loras’s face. “Well, so long as you’re staying positive.”

She elbows him.

“You know,” he says, in a thoughtful tone that has her sitting up and listening closely, “far be it from me to interfere with the expert-”

She waves impatiently for him to just get on with it.

“-but if he’s as, er, virginal as Renly claims, then I’m sure he’s much more worried about how much  _ he’s _ going to embarrass  _ you _ , not the other way around. I mean, you’re a pretty girl, basically all you have to do is lie there and show your breasts and everyone will be impressed. Except me, because I most definitely will not be there, nor do I actually want to be talking about this.”

Margaery gapes. That-that tracks well with what Stannis hasn’t been saying.  _ Gods _ , she’s an idiot. And so is he, because they could  _ easily have solved this _ with  _ five minutes _ in a bed. Well, he’s a bit older. Maybe ten.

_ Men. _

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” Loras asks.

“No.” Margaery says. She reminds herself that it doesn’t matter. She’s young, she doesn’t have to become Queen tomorrow. She’ll have years to build a strong relationship with Stannis, to forge him into the king Westeros needs, who knows the value of the Queen at his side. She has time, and one horrid bedding won’t ruin everything. It  _ won’t _ .

“You know I’m on your side,” Loras tells her. “Always.”

She appreciates that, but she doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. She picks a smooth stone up from the ground. “How many times do you think I can skip it?”

“Not as many as me.” He grins and hunts for his own stone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is the wedding night and it's going to feature sex between Stannis and Margaery which is willing-ish and sex between Robert and Cersei which is not. There is nothing plot-centric to this chapter so if you want to skip it, you'll miss out on nothing important.

She wears a beautiful, hand-stitched gown for her wedding. It’s a rich green, the color of new leaves, with roses and vines in delicate gold embroidery. She has a crown of fresh roses in her hair. Father commissioned it, and looks very pleased with himself when he offers his arm to walk her down the aisle.

It’s still not too late for Stannis to have second thoughts, and she doesn’t entirely approve of so blatantly proclaiming her a daughter of Highgarden and House Tyrell--at least, not until  _ after _ the vows are said--but Father wouldn’t be deterred, apparently trying to make up for his initial opposition to the match in his own, inept way.

Not that she really thinks Stannis would invite yet more humiliation by running away now, or that he would go back on his word to marry her, but fretting about the possibility gives her something to think about while she climbs the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.

Where she’s already been married. Twice.

Where she died.

So she thinks about her plans for Stannis instead. If only she’d known from the beginning what she knows now. For someone with such a reputation for being unapproachable, subverting him was so easy as to almost be a waste of her skills. All she had to do was pay him the slightest bit of positive attention, and his devotion was secured. How fortunate for him and for the realm that she has only their wellbeing at heart.

She does have one moment of real trepidation when Father hands her off to Stannis; the two men have successfully avoided each other, so there has been nothing like a resolution between the two families over old wounds. But Father doesn’t start anything, and Stannis acts like he doesn’t exist, all his focus on Margaery. As it should be.

He’s dressed up for the wedding, of course, but because of his austerity it’s the first time she’s seen him in anything more than day-to-day clothes. He looks… good. Still not handsome, nothing could make him that, but strong. Fit. And, dare she think it… regal.

His severe frown eases just a little as she takes her place at his side, and she smiles up at him, filling her eyes with love.

They recite their vows in front of the gods and their families.

She hadn’t been able to coax him into even an innocent kiss before the wedding, so this will be their first, here in the Sept as man and wife.

He’s tall, so if he refuses to cooperate they’ll both look ridiculous, but it seems he’s finally done fighting her. He rests his hands on her shoulders, almost too carefully, but she acts like he’s pulling her closer, and he bends his head and  _ finally _ kisses her, so, so gently.

She could do a lot worse than a husband who is too gentle with her. She’s reluctant to let him go.

And then King Robert laughs, ruining the moment. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

Stannis goes rigid, and Margaery reminds herself that this is not the time to pursue that gentleness, that first they’ll have to get through the evening.

“Will you escort me to our table?” she asks, looping an arm through his. 

He doesn’t smile as they’re stopped by well-wishers wanting to congratulate them, as expected, but Margaery has a smile and kind word for each of them, navigating the cutthroat court society with practiced ease, balancing him out. It’s not quite as effective as she’d hoped; the lords and ladies accept her studied manners easily enough, but Stannis winds himself tighter and tighter with each interaction, and she’s afraid he’ll shatter.

Cersei, already at the royal table with a full cup, raises it in a mock toast. A smirk twists her lips. 

Margaery meets her gaze steadily, betraying no fear. She’ll never forget the threat Cersei represents, one that will only increase as Margaery draws more of her attention. First Margaery dared to aspire so high as to be sister to the king (if Cersei only knew her true ambitions), then she seduced a man who proved immune to Cersei’s dubious “charms”, and Cersei hates happiness and seeks always to snuff it out in others. Margaery could only have done worse by marrying one of Cersei’s precious children. 

She’s a woman who wants to see the world burn, and Margaery won’t burn again.

So Margaery sweeps her skirts under her in one, elegant movement, so she can sit without rumpling the fabric. Stannis sits next to her, awkward and graceless. He also doesn’t relax, even as Margaery moves her hand from his arm to his thigh where no one can see the comfort she offers him. 

“It’s our wedding feast,” she reminds him. “Ours.”

“Hardly.”

She squeezes his thigh in warning. “Ours. The only people whose opinions matter concerning  _ our _ marriage and  _ our _ wedding feast are  _ ours _ . I am determined to have a pleasant time, and enjoy the good food and good company.”

He looks skeptical.

She smiles brighter.

“Hmm.”

Maybe she’s expecting too much of him. He’s a private man whose life has been paraded and mocked and dragged through the court. And now, anyone who wants it has a front row seat to their wedding feast and, later, their wedding night. She doesn’t  _ want _ to start this marriage off on a sour note, but it seems he is determined to be miserable, and it might be doing more harm than good at this point to keep trying to change his attitude.

He starts to turn away but she catches his chin between her fingers. “I have a wedding gift for you, but it can wait until tomorrow. Something for you to open when we’re alone in our quarters.”

He relaxes at the thought of being alone. Her poor husband. The sooner they can leave King’s Landing, the better for him. 

“I have a gift for you as well,” he says. 

A squire stops by their table to fill their glasses.

“Thank you,” Margaery says.

Stannis echoes her words. He takes a sip of his drink before he sets it down. “If you wish to indulge then I won’t hold it against you.”

“I don’t want to forget today,” Margaery says. “And I don’t want to dull tonight.”

“You don’t?” Stannis doesn’t quite keep all of the surprise out of his voice. “Earlier you expressed your misgivings towards this night.”

She’ll never be fully comfortable with the bedding. She doesn’t mind an audience if she’s invited them there; an audience that invites themselves is completely different. But she’s hardly going to tell Stannis that. She leans closer to Stannis and lowers her voice. “I still have those misgivings, but I won’t leave you to face the night on your own. I took a vow tonight promising to remain at your side for the rest of our lives. I won’t break that vow at its first test.”

“My lady,” he says, the hope in his voice a tenuous thing.

She draws his face closer until she can brush a kiss against his lips. “I am yours and you are mine,” she murmurs. 

She can feel him trembling under her touch.

#

Once the children have been sent to bed and the adults are well and truly drunk, Robert staggers to his feet, and Margaery knows the pleasant part of the day is about to end. At least there’s no worry that they’ll find Robert in their marriage bed. 

“It’s time for the bedding,” Robert announces and the courtyard is filled with drunken cheers.

Margaery stands with all the dignity she can muster and holds her hand out to Stannis. She won’t give anyone in this room the satisfaction of her fear or her shame. She’ll walk to her bedchamber with her husband at her side and her head held high. 

She sees Loras stand and tug Renly up as well, and gives them an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement as they quietly leave. They don’t need any more brothers standing as witness.

Having Stannis’s older brother will be bad enough.

It’s a slow walk through the palace, and Margaery runs through her plan for the night again. With such a large audience she can’t be as forward as she was hoping to be. All Stannis needs is a firm hand, and he’ll be a good husband both in the bedchamber and out of it. She understands him now, and she’s confident she can manage.

But not tonight, under the eyes of half the court. Men are so sensitive about their performance in bed, and he won’t take kindly to even the most delicately worded guidance now.

If this night doesn’t end with murder then she’ll consider it a success. 

Robert and Cersei are the first in the room, and Margaery fights to keep her expression placid rather then narrow her eyes at the King and Queen. Robert picks what he obviously thinks is the best seat in the room, and he pulls Cersei down onto his lap.

Her bottom lips curls, obviously displeased, and snaps her fingers for a fresh cup of wine.

_ I hope you find this entertaining _ , Margaery thinks viciously. Then,  _ Maybe it’ll give  _ your  _ husband a few ideas for the rest of the night.  _

Cersei catches Margaery staring and her lips peels back in an unfriendly smile. “Would you like some advice?” Cersei asks. “Woman to woman?”

“I follow my husband’s lead,” Margaery says.

“Ah, yes.” Cersei drinks. “He does have experience in this area.”

Stannis stiffens at the mention of his previous marriage, and Margaery wishes she could throw the Queen out of her bedchamber. Instead, she looks through the crowd until she spots Dahlia, hovering near the door. 

Margaery lifts her hair from her shoulders and Dahlia hurries over to help her with her dress. 

Every eye in the room is on her, and Margaery holds herself tall as Dahlia peels back the layers of her wedding clothes. When she’s only her in under-shift, she covers Dahlia’s hands to still them. 

“Thank you,” Margaery says. She squeezes Dahlia’s hands then steps towards her husband. 

“Would you do the final honors?” Margaery asks.

Stannis’s fingers are clumsy and chilled as they push the straps off her shoulders. She has to lower her arms so the garment can fall to the floor. Stannis offers her his hand to hold as she steps out of it. It’s...sweet, and she feels another surge of affection for this man.

He uses his body to shield hers as he pulls back the blankets on their bed. He even covers her with the sheet once she’s lying down.

“We haven’t got all night,” Robert complains. 

There’s scattered laughter throughout the room. 

Margaery carefully doesn’t look at anyone but Stannis, and she wills him to look at her. If they can pretend they’re the only ones in the room then perhaps tonight won’t be so terrible. She smiles at Stannis, encouraging, as his fingers undo the fastenings of his own wedding clothes.

She wishes he’d pulled the comforter over her as well so she could slip her fingers inside herself and prepare for what’s to come. If Robert is rushing them through undressing then she doubts he’ll have the patience for anything but the marriage act itself. 

Maybe she should’ve excused herself from the feast early to give herself time to loosen up. Nothing to be done for it now. 

She watches Stannis undress, gaze taking in every inch of skin he reveals to her. He’s fit, lean but muscled from years of hard work. She wonders if his hands will have calluses. Dahlia’s don’t and none of Margaery’s previous husbands had calluses; Renly had never worked before in his life and Tommen was too young and pampered. 

But Stannis is a proud man, one who insists on things being done right which in his eyes means doing them himself. Margaery lets her eyes linger on Stannis’s hands as he drops his wedding clothes on the floor with little care for the garments.

She hopes he’ll take more care with her. 

He catches her staring and pauses, fingers on the ties of his smallclothes. 

“Those are probably the most important thing to take off,” Robert says when Stannis pauses for too long. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to do this.”

There’s more laughter, and Stannis practically rips the rest of his clothes off. 

Anger bubbles up in Margaery’s chest. She knows she should keep her mouth shut, stay demure, and endure tonight. The rest of their nights are theirs, only this one she has to share, but she hates the look on Stannis’s face. She hates how tight his shoulders are, how he looks around the room as if there’s somewhere he can hide. 

Rage builds in her chest, and maybe she’s more like Cersei than she thinks, because she decides that if she has to suffer through a miserable night then someone else should too.

“It’s new,” Margaery says, her voice quiet but silencing the last lingering chuckles. “New for me, at least.” She glances at Stannis then at Cersei before her gaze lands on Robert. “But you know how to do this. You and the Queen have three children.”

She can see the moment Cersei realizes what her angle is, because the other woman’s eyes narrow into dagger points. 

“Maybe you could show us,” Margaery says, timid like the child they all think she is. She knows how to play a crowd, who she needs to be in order to get what she wants.

Here, naked save the sheet clutched against her chest, her hair spilling down her shoulders, she knows she looks young and lost. When she widens her eyes just a touch more she looks afraid. And there’s her king, in the chair near her bed, the man she looks to to ease her fears. 

Robert, predictably, puffs up.

There’s chatter and approval from the lords around him.

Only Cersei looks mutinous, but there’s no way she can refuse Robert in front of such a large crowd. When guilts begins to creep in, Margaery reminds herself that this woman, or a version of her at least, burned Margaery alive. 

She forces herself to watch as Robert spreads Cersei out on their bed. Margaery has to pull her knees up to her chest so the royal couple doesn’t have sex on top of her. She holds her hand out to Stannis as Robert shoves Cersei’s dress up. 

He clasps it in his own as he sits next to her on their bed. He’s also careful to keep his limbs away from Cersei and Robert. 

Robert takes Margaery’s request to heart and offers up boorish commentary as he fucks his wife. It’s crude and  _ cruel _ and what feels like half the court is here to witness it. Guilt crawls up Margaery’s throat, threatening to choke her. She wants to turn away, but she can’t because she asked for this. 

And why?

Because she didn’t want to be the only one to suffer tonight?

Stannis pulls her against his side. “I will be gentle with you,” he promises, voice muffled by the slapping of skin in front of them. 

Robert grunts and groans and Cersei looks up at the ceiling,  _ bored _ . 

“It doesn’t look pleasant,” Margaery whispers.

“It’s a duty,” Stannis says. 

That is one of the first things she’ll have to train out of her husband. If they’re going to have a whole brood of children, and they will, she’s not going to  _ endure  _ their nights together. But that’s for a different time.

When Robert finishes, he heaves himself back onto his chair, pants still at his thighs. Cersei wipes herself with the blanket on Margaery’s bed, which she probably deserves, then sweeps regally out of the room. 

It means Margaery’s the only woman left, a fact she’s uncomfortably aware of as everyone turns their attention back to her. 

“Did that jog your memory?” Robert asks. He belches then drains Cersei’s abandoned glass of wine. 

Margaery, realizing there’s no other ways to stall, turns to Stannis. “Our turn?” she asks. 

He moves so he looms over her, and he tugs the sheet out of her hands, but his body blocks anyone else from seeing hers.  _ Oh _ , she thinks. She reaches a hand out towards him.

“Will you be gentle with me, husband?” she asks. 

His eyes flick to hers, surprised, and maybe even a little pleased. He  _ is  _ gentle, brushing her hair from her face as he leans in to kiss her. His stubble prickles but doesn’t scratch. His other hand drops between their bodies. His finger is blunt as it pushes into her and feels too large, though she knows it’s smaller than what’s to come.

She does her best to relax, but she isn’t ready when he pulls his fingers out. She can’t ask for more time, because Robert’s looking impatient, and if he opens his mouth then she knows things will only get worse. 

When he breaches her, she tips her head back and blows out a slow breath. The men in the room cheer, and Stannis’s hips jerk forward. Tears spring into her eyes and she stares at the ceiling until they recede. 

She curls a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him closer. Once he’s close enough, she kisses him again. It’s part distraction, part an effort to keep herself hidden from sight. Stannis isn’t enthusiastic about kissing. He pants against her mouth then tucks his face against her neck as he continues to thrust into her. 

It’s jerky and rough but she gasps then moans even when it hurts.

“There you go!” Robert says then laughs.

Margaery moans again and clenches around Stannis’s length. The sooner this is over, the sooner she can sleep and forget about this night. Of course, it can’t be over  _ too  _ fast or Robert will have something new to mock his brother with.

When it’s finally over, Robert insists on inspecting the wetness between her thighs then pats her hip, almost absently. She holds herself absolutely still until he, and his drunken cohorts, are gone. 

She sinks back against the bed as the door is shut, leaving her and her husband alone. He fetches her a cloth from the washroom. It’s damp and she wipes between her legs. When Stannis joins her in their bed, he touches her stomach. She waits for him to say something or look at her.

Instead, he withdraws his hand and pulls the blanket over them. 

Sleep finds him faster than it finds her.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Margaery wakes up when Stannis slides out of bed. He spots her before she can pretend to still be asleep. 

He rubs his chin. “Uh, I hope you’re well this morning.”

Margaery musters up a smile. “I am, thank you. And yourself?”

He nods, which appears to be all the answer he means to give. He goes into the washroom and changes into his clothes for the day. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks. 

“I could eat.” She slides out of their bed and pretends she doesn’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her bare skin. “Would you help me dress?”

She picks something simple, but even still it takes some gentle guidance and careful instruction so that she ends up properly clothed. His fingers are clumsy with her clothes and his touch is fleeting, almost abrupt, like he doesn’t dare linger.

Once she’s dressed, she turns to him and catches his hands before he can retreat. He stares at their hands, then at her, apprehension in his gaze. 

“You weren’t this hesitant last night,” she says. “Have I done something to displease you?”

“You haven’t,” he promises, beginning to pull his hands back before thinking better of it. 

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with them, and she lets the awkwardness linger only a moment before she reels him in slowly, afraid to spook him. She raises their joined hands so she can kiss the back of one, then the other.

“Good morning, husband.”

He flushes and stammers a greeting of his own before she takes pity on him and allows him to escort her downstairs. 

Fortunately, most of the court is still sleeping off last night’s excitement. The royal children eat under the watchful eye of their septa, but their parents are nowhere to be seen. 

Margaery sits with her family, grateful for the reprieve, and Stannis follows after only a moment.

Though it’s not as much a reprieve as she might have hoped. By some miracle, Lady Olenna has clearly not heard an exact account of what occurred last night, but she can hardly miss Renly and Loras staring. Loras is so busy gaping at Margaery he actually misses his mouth with his spoon. Twice.

Cowards, leaving the telling to her.

Lady Olenna’s eyes get narrower, and the atmosphere tenser, as the meal drags on and on. Margaery catches herself hoping that Cersei will arrive and interrupt, which is when she knows this has gone on quite long enough.

“I must confer with my men,” Stannis says, just as she opens her mouth to speak, giving her a curt nod as he stands.

She deliberately doesn’t frown at him, not sure if she’s relieved or appalled that he doesn’t appear to have noticed any awkwardness at the table. How has he survived so many years in King’s Landing?

He’s already halfway out the door, and she would look silly shouting a farewell at his back. They’ll work on that.

When he’s out of sight, she takes a deep breath and turns back to her companions.

Or, companion. Loras and Renly snuck off somehow while her back was turned.

Lady Olenna looks particularly unimpressed. “Well? What happened?”

Flushing, Margaery confesses, everything but her true reasons for disliking Cersei so suddenly and completely. It’s no great mystery why anyone would dislike the Queen, having met her.

Margaery has heard that confession is good for the soul, but she feels no sense of comfort and peace when her words run dry. She’s done the one thing she told herself she wouldn’t; she’s drawn the ire of Cersei Baratheon. And not even for a good reason, just… pettiness, and spite, and maybe her anger is justified but not the outlet.

Gods, she’s an idiot.

Lady Olenna certainly seems to think so, judging by her expression, and the length of her pause to consider this new development. “I have heard things,” she says, because of course she has. Half of King’s Lansing, if not the whole of Westeros, has surely heard of the Queen’s humiliation. Lady Olenna, housed right here in the Red Keep and with a vested interest in the events, has surely already heard the bare facts. “I had hoped they were false.”

Margaery bows her head, angry and embarrassed and not sure she can hide either adequately. “I was... nervous,” she says, because that’s probably better than the truth, that she was angry and petty and  _ stupid. _

Lady Olenna presses her lips together but says no more in public, contrary to her famed bluntness. Not that she needs to say more. She expected more of Margaery. Margaery expected more of herself.

And now she’ll pay the price for her foolishness. There will be no stopping Cersei now. It’s only a question of whether she’ll pretend at subtlety or simply walk up to Margaery and strangle her with her bare hands.

“Do you know what tradition is gaining popularity?” Lady Olenna asks, leaving Margaery blinking at the sudden subject change. “Recently, married couples take a trip together following their wedding. Courting, understandably, is limited in allowing intendeds to learn one another. And soon there will be children to consider, and always duty and responsibility and work. So, a trip, just the two of you.”

Margaery doesn’t care if Grandmother is sincere or if she just invented this ‘new tradition’. Time away from King and Queen is perfect, exactly what they need.

Of course, Stannis will not think this is exactly what they need. He’s barely left King’s Landing since he took a place on the Council, and judging by the way he all but fled from Margaery this morning, he’s not over eager to spend time alone with her, either. 

Well, that’s just too bad for him. Margaery has no doubts the Crown’s ships will continue to sail without Stannis. She just needs to convince him he wants to go, or at least that he’ll grudgingly tolerate time alone with his lovely young wife.

How she could have found such a husband, she’ll never know. 

But once again, Grandmother comes to her rescue. “I’ve even heard that it increases the chances of a child within the first year of marriage,” she says.

It is almost certainly nonsense, except in the practical sense that new couples might have more opportunities to… couple… in the relative isolation of a private trip. It doesn’t matter; in this Stannis is like any other man, obsessed with having a son to carry on his legacy.

She’s certain he’ll do much more than take a few days away, if there’s the possibility of a son.

And if she conceives right away, she can easily make the case for going straight to Dragonstone. Stannis is appallingly bad at the Game, but not so stupid that he wants a son of his born and raised anywhere near Cersei. She might be able to put off a return to King’s Landing for a year. Maybe more.

It won’t soften Cersei’s heart or make her forget about her revenge, but it will give Margaery time to prepare for it and time to build her husband’s affection and protectiveness for her. And if she is much more fortunate than her behavior so far has earned, Cersei’s secret may come out sooner rather than later, and Margaery will return to King’s Landing a Queen.

She is getting ahead of herself. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“Of course it does, I said it.”

Really, Margaery thinks, that all-knowing attitude may actually be even more annoying when she knows that she’s done wrong.

#

She confers with Loras before tracking down Stannis, and she brings both Renly and Loras with her to help make her case. She doubts Stannis will be persuaded by a straightforward seduction, but he might be convinced to actually listen to his brother for once, or to want to get away from his wife’s family. 

She’s betting that last will be her best argument.

Renly only knows that Margaery wants to take Stannis on a romantic trip, and once he got done laughing he easily agreed to lending his voice to the argument, which was not as reassuring as he perhaps meant.

They find Stannis easily enough, fortunately with Ser Davos nowhere in sight.

Margaery curtsies as prettily as she knows how, which is very prettily indeed, and her loving husband looks deeply annoyed and also ready to run at the first opportunity. She fights the urge to sigh.

“Well done!” Renly says, slapping Stannis on the back, which has the benefit of directing all the annoyance solely at Renly, but otherwise only makes Margaery question why she brought him along.

Unless she means to convince him it’s worth getting away from his own family as well, which in point of fact, might work even better than the promise of a son.

Nevertheless, he’s tolerated both his brothers all these years, so she can’t rely on that.

She thinks about saying something charming, then remembers who she’s talking to. “I should very much like to take a trip, if you are amenable, lord husband,” she says instead, directing her eyes modestly downwards.

Stannis, who prefers to look people in the eye when speaking, ducks just a little and turns so he can better see her face. Perfect. He’s finally paying attention to her. “What? Why?”

Well, at least it wasn’t an outright no. “It’s customary for a new husband and wife,” she says, which is a generous interpretation, but he clearly pays no attention to society and probably won’t know that.

He harrumphs and looks skeptical.

“Give you some Alone Time,” Renly says, smacking him again and adding a ridiculous eyebrow wriggle. “Though from what Robert was saying, you hardly need it.”

If he were doing this on purpose Margaery would be impressed, but as is she’s mostly just appalled at her good-brother’s poor taste. At least it’s working, because Stannis looks like he’s ready to toss Renly out a window. 

She coughs, delicately. “I’ve heard that most couples who engage in this ritual have children in their first year, far more than those who don’t.” This is a complete lie, but again, her audience is two men who prefer other men and Stannis. No one calls her on it.

“Oh?”

She tries another demure glance at the floor, willing some color to her cheeks at discussing such a sensitive topic. “Rest, warm weather, and the fresh sea air,” she says.

“You can get all that here,” Stannis says, frowning.

Renly bursts out laughing. “Are you serious? Fresh air? In King’s Landing? And she means pleasantly warm, not sickeningly humid, isn’t that right, my lady?”

“And further, Dragonstone is an island, there’s nothing  _ but _ sea air,” Stannis says, right over any response Margaery might have attempted.

“That gloomy place? Even a pretty young thing like Margaery here would be put off by all those glaring statues, use your head, Stannis! Or, you know.” The eyebrows make a reappearance.

This time, Margaery kicks Loras, because she can’t kick Renly.

Stannis is grinding his teeth so hard she can hear it. “I have responsibilities here, we can’t all just disappear to Highgarden whenever the fancy takes us.”

“Well--”

“I hear Dorne is quite nice this time of year,” Loras says, which is the exact opposite of casually bringing it into the conversation but does stop the two brother from actually coming to blows.

“What? Dorne?” Renly asks. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dorne hates the Baratheons,” Stannis says, almost at the same time.

“It’s warm, there’s ocean,” Loras says. “It could be restful.”

“Or,” Margaery says, before anyone else can speak and further derail this conversation, “it could be a mission of diplomacy. It is true that Dorne has been… hesitant… to embrace King Robert’s rule, but this could be the perfect opportunity to mend that relationship. Sending his own brother to treat with them would be a strong message, and Highgarden abuts Dorne, so it would not be too surprising given our recent wedding.”

“You think  _ Stannis _ , would be a suitable diplomat, in  _ Dorne _ ?” Renly asks, barely getting the words out he’s laughing so hard. He waves a hand in Stannis’s general direction, which Stannis bats away irritably.

“Negotiations with Dorne are well within the purview of the Master of Ships,” Margaery says, batting her eyelashes in case the argument is too practical for a young lady of noble birth. 

“Hmph,” Stannis says, the tiniest bit less frostily than before.

“And the Dornish are noted for their many children,” she adds, her face a mask of perfect innocence. 

“Something in the water,” Loras says, also with a perfectly straight face.

Renly mutters about the Dornish lifestyle under his breath, quietly enough that Margaery can pretend not to hear it.

“Is it not our duty to aid the King in whatever way we can?” Margaery says.

Stannis is perfectly silent for long moments, his frown even more pronounced than usual as he considers the conversation and draws gods only know what conclusions. “Dorne cannot remain apart from the rest of the kingdoms forever,” he says, but softly, questioningly, far from his usual tendency to bark orders at everyone.

“I thought Ned Stark was in charge of bringing Dorne back into the fold,” Renly says.

Stannis frowns so severely it must be painful, squaring his shoulders and generally looking like a man spoiling for a fight. “Ned Stark,” he says, with obvious bitterness, “does not sit on the King’s Council, or indeed pay the slightest attention to any part of the kingdom below the Neck.  _ If _ Dorne were his responsibility, he has been sorely neglecting it. I will speak to Robert today.”

Margaery could have kissed Renly; she commits this reaction to memory so she can consider the implications for her plans at a more appropriate time. “Of course,” she says, with extra sweetness, laying a hand on Stannis’s arm.

Stannis looks at it a moment, hesitates. “That is, if you won’t be upset if I work during our wedding celebration, my lady?” 

Margaery’s smile is far from sweet as she leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m confident that when I want your attention, I shall have it.”

“Ah.” Twin spots of color boom on Stannis’s cheeks. “Yes. Well.”

“Hang on, this could be dangerous!” Renly exclaims.

For Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Loyalists, not that dangerous. For Margaery Baratheon, sister-by-marriage to the Usurper; well, she’ll have to keep her guard up.

“I am no craven to hide away from danger,” Stannis says, icily, and storms off, probably to rouse the King and propose the trip right then and there.

“Brienne should go with you,” Reny shouts at the empty doorway.

Margaery curtsies deeply when she can’t quite contain her satisfied smile. “If she is agreeable then I would be honored.”

#

The whispers in the castle are that Stannis, and by extension Margaery, are being sent to Dorne to be shamed and ridiculed by them until Robert wants to take the job over himself again. Margaery doesn’t care why they’re being sent so long as they are sent.

Once they land in Dorne, Robert and his influence far from them, they can make their own introductions and set their own expectations for the visit. Margaery wants to meet with Prince Doran and speak, cryptically of course, of the current state of the royal succession. When she is Queen, she intends to rule a united Westeros. 

The Royal Family comes to see them off, Cersei’s mouth twisted into a haughty smirk as Margaery bids farewell to the King and Queen. The Dornish hate the Lannisters almost as much as the Usurper, so she no doubt sees this as a prolonged death sentence. Well, she’s always had difficulty seeing beyond her own nose.

Margaery won’t allow pride or anger or even fear to get the better of herself this time. She welcomes the escape from Cersei and the opportunity to bond with her husband away from the whispers and stares which make him self-conscious. It will be the two of them in a land whose customs are wholly alien to him and whose people despise him for his family name, and he’ll have no one but her to turn to for comfort and companionship. 

Shireen is going back to Dragonstone with Ser Davos; Stannis doesn’t consider Sunspear any more appropriate an environment for a child than the Red Keep. Margaery has grown fond of the girl, but can’t argue that her presence will complicate both her aims with this trip, and Shireen’s absence means Ser Davos will be far away, as well. She is as effusive in her goodbyes as Stannis is stoic, though he does tolerate a hug.

Margaery is genuinely sad to part ways with her own family. She doesn’t know when she’ll see them again, and she clings to Loras for perhaps too long. When she finally steps back, Cersei’s expression has turned even more pleased.

_ Let her think she’s won. _

“I expect you to stay until you have a child growing inside you,” Lady Olenna says as she hugs Margaery. “Or better yet, one in hand. A son is the greatest protection for women of noble birth.”

“I will give him enough sons to fill all the Keeps in the Stormlands,” Margaery promises.

“Keep your wits about you. You’ll have as delicate a dance in Dorne as you did in King’s Landing.

“I shall have more friends when I leave than when I arrive.”

She kisses her grandmother’s cheeks and joins her husband so they can board their ship and begin their adventure.


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a moderately sized party waiting for them when they land. Prince Doran sits in his chair, flanked by Prince Oberyn on one side and the younger prince, Prince Trystane on his other. Next to Oberyn is a slim woman with steel in her eyes and a line of younger woman trailing behind her like the tail of a snake. 

There are lords present other than those from House Martell, but Margaery knows who the most important people are here. 

She keeps her arm tucked through her husband’s, as much to present a united front as to keep him from doing anything foolish. For now, he seems determined to be as unapproachable and statue-like as possible, which is annoying but does allow her to take the lead.

“Prince Doran,” Margaery greets. She gives a sweeping curtsy, lowering herself until he has the height advantage.

“There’s no need for that,” Doran says, waving her off. “Stand, child.”

“I’m no longer a child,” Margaery says, and she leans into her husband for emphasis.

“No, you are not,” Doran agrees. “Much has passed since we last spoke. Come, we have a meal prepared for your arrival. Let the servants handle the unpacking.”

“My husband,” Margaery begins, but Oberyn cuts her off.

“Everyone here knows what a Baratheon looks like,” the man sneers. “We need no introductions.”

Doran is too well-mannered to sigh, but Maragery can see a flash of frustration before he tells Margaery, and Stannis, “Don’t worry, my brother has his own table. He won’t ruin your appetites.”

“If the sea couldn’t then I’m not sure anything can,” Margaery says. Speaking of, she looks back at Dahlia who is still far too pale in the face. “Is there a lighter fare we can offer my handmaiden? I’m afraid the travel did not agree with her.”

“Of course,” Doran says.

One of the many women near Oberyn steps out of their careful line. “I am Nymeria,” she greets. “I can help you find something to eat and a place to rest.”

Dahlia looks to Margaery for permission and, once she has it, summons a weak smile. “Your kindness will be remembered, thank you.”

Margaery doesn’t like to see their party separated, especially when she isn’t sure yet how welcome they are here, but she couldn’t refuse without slighting the Prince. Besides, Dahlia is quite unwell, and it would not help her to sit through a meal that’s certain to be fraught with insults and traps. 

She almost wishes she could send her husband away so she might have an opportunity to speak with Prince Doran on her own. Dorne is...different than the rest of Westeros. They value their independence and their freedom, flaunting their different customs both because there is no shame in enjoying what they enjoy but also as a challenge to outsiders. Accept us or leave. 

Acceptance is not one of the virtues her husband is blessed with. 

She’s relieved, then, when their table is composed of Prince Doran and Trystane, Areo Hotah, Margaery herself, her husband, and Brienne. It’s a small table, certainly, but neither Prince Doran nor Prince Trystane seem inclined to stir up trouble. 

“You’re very beautiful,” Trystane says. “Your smile reflects like the sun when it first touches the waves in the morning.”

Margaery’s lips twitch, wanting to smile, but she holds it back. Trystane is still quite young, but she foresees he will grow to be more like his notorious uncle than his father. 

“You flatter me,” Margaery says, giving the little charmer a warm smile. 

He looks very pleased with himself as he peels an orange, willfully oblivious to Stannis glaring at the side of his head.

“Forgive my son,” Doran says. “He’s used his lines on all the women in Dorne and has been hoping for someone new to try them on.”

“They’re not  _ lines _ ,” Trystane huffs.

“He’s a heartbreaker-in-progress,” Margaery says, soothing Trystane’s ego even as she shares a smile with Doran. 

He shakes his head, probably because this is the exact opposite of reining him in, but moves on to another topic. “We were quite surprised to hear you were coming to Dorne. I thought, given recent circumstances, that we might not see each other for some time.”

Translation:  _ when you married the younger brother of the King, we thought the tenuous truce would fall through along with our whispered hopes of overthrowing Robert. _

“It’s customary,” Stannis says, speaking for the first time the whole meal, “following a wedding, the husband and wife go on a trip together to strengthen their union.”

Margaery lays her hand over Stannis’s and smiles for Doran. “Of course, my husband doesn’t understand the meaning of relaxation so when I suggested Dorne for its beaches, he found a way to convince his brother to have him work instead.”

“It’s an honor to serve my King,” Stannis says stiffly, but at least he’s talking.

“...I see,” Doran says. And maybe he does; Lady Olenna has spoken highly of his skill in the Game, and that’s not a compliment she pays often.

“I’ve heard only good things of your Water Gardens,” Margaery says. “Perhaps, in the coming days, I might accompany you to them.”

“They are my favorite place in all of Dorne,” Doran says. “But if this is truly a wedding trip then perhaps we should all give you and your husband some privacy for the first few days.”

Margaery ducks her head, feigning bashfulness, and watches her husband flush in real embarrassment with private amusement.

“Privacy?” Oberyn scoffs, sauntering over with a full cup in his hand. “That’s not the Dornish way. And shouldn’t an ambassador learn the ways of the people he’s connecting with?”

He asks it with a challenging jut of his chin, and Stannis glances up from his meal.

Margaery holds her breath.

“What do you have in mind, Prince Oberyn?” Stannis asks, in what for him is a mild tone.

“A feast,” Oberyn says. “With dancing.”

“That is very kind of you,” Margaery says, “but we haven’t come here to put a strain on your hospitality.”

“Most nights we feast and dance,” Doran admits. 

“Then we shall join you,” Margaery says, “but give us a few days before you make my husband work?”

Oberyn smirks. “First  _ you _ want to make him work?”

Brienne sucks in a sharp breath, and Stannis looks seconds away from losing his temper. Margaery puts a firm hand on each of their knees while Doran sighs and tries unsuccessfully to usher his brother along. 

Margaery tilts her head, allows confusion and innocence to fill her eyes. “I don’t think you understand, Prince Oberyn. We’re here to relax,  _ not  _ work. I would spend our whole trip in the water or the sand if King Robert hadn’t insisted on the ambassadorship.”

In the face of Margaery’s deliberate misunderstanding, Oberyn can’t do anything but stalk off. Margaery leans against Stannis’s side once he’s gone and takes another bite of her dinner. She’ll need all her strength and wits about her if they’re to make it through their visit without bloodshed or sparking a war. 

#

The beds in Dorne are softer than the ones in King’s Landing, and their room has an entire wall of windows. There are curtains over the windows and sheer drapings around the bed, less for modesty and more for the visual appeal.

Margaery wakes to sunlight filtered through cloth, painting the room in soft pinks and oranges which make her smile. She trails her fingers over Stannis’s skin, bronzed by the tricks of the light. She wonders if their time here will coax the paleness from his skin. 

Not, she reflects as he dresses, if he insists on being covered all the time. He dresses as if they’re in the North, full sleeves, shirt tied high at the collar. Margaery lets him even as she picks something lighter for herself. Here in Dorne, she can show her shoulders and her back, trusting the sun to keep her warm where her clothes don’t. 

She feels her husband’s gaze linger but it doesn’t last long enough. When she turns to him, he’s fussing with his own clothes, jaw clenched. Does he think he doesn’t have the right to look on his wife, or is he upset at the thought of others looking at her?

Nothing she can do about the latter; it’s Dorne, there’s always  _ someone  _ who will be looking. And she’s grateful he isn’t the sort of man to assume that she’s his to do with as he wills, just because they’re married, but she  _ wants _ him to bed her, as often as possible until she gets with child.

But that will have to wait. He was completely unreceptive to her overtures this morning, apparently scandalized by the brightness of the sun, or the openness of the room, or whatever else goes on in his head, so instead they adjourn for morning meal.

They take it in the adjoining room, which has only three walls, so nothing but curtains separates them from the outside. It’s a fine view, and this early the heat is not too oppressive, though the salt tang breeze is still welcome.

The food in Dorne is rich, spiced more than King’s Landing and, apparently, Dragonstone, if the way Stannis fussily rearranges his plate is any indication. He avoids all the food with flavor, settling for rolls topped with the least spicy of the meat. 

Margaery’s prepared to tease him about having the palette of a child when she remembers when he  _ was  _ a child, he nearly starved to death, so it might be in poor taste. Still, he needs to learn to be more adventurous, and to enjoy himself, or this will be a wasted trip.

She smears a roll with marmalade, thick and orange and sweet and holds it out. “For you, ambassador,” she says, part teasing, part genuine. 

He glances at the offering then at her. “I can feed myself,” he finally says.

“We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”

“And when we leave?”

Another piece of her husband slots into place. He denies himself so he won’t grow dependent, so there’s nothing to miss when he inevitably loses it. She knows there are no promises in their world. Dorne could turn on them or Robert could yank them back to King’s Landing. He’s dissolved one of Stannis’s marriages, and there’s nothing stopping him from dissolving another.

“Then you have new experiences to take home with you,” Margaery answers. “And those which you enjoyed most of all, we can bring them with us.” She places the roll in his open palm. “There is marmalade in places besides Dorne.”

He stares at the roll, baffled, but he eventually takes a bite. In short order, the whole thing is gone. She prepares a plate for him with a little bit of everything and explains it to him as he eats it. The eggs which are cooked with flakes of potato and mixed with what the Dornish call salsa. She points out the different meats, how different preparations or spices determine what time of day it’s eaten. 

By the end of their meal, Stannis has tried everything. 

“You know a lot about Dorne,” he says.

There was a time when Trystane’s name was floated as a possible suitor for her. And even when those talks quieted, there were the ever-present  _ what-ifs _ . So yes, Margaery knows a great deal of Dorne. 

“My grandmother saw that I had a thorough education. Would you like to take a walk this morning? The sand by the water is hard-packed.”

“You’ll ruin your shoes.”

Margaery smiles. “Then I shall walk barefoot.”

“And your dress?”

She isn’t one to overly care about such things, but to a man with only an intellectual understanding of women, it probably seems important. At least he’s trying to be considerate, sort of. Still, she folds up her hem and pins it so her ankles and her feet are bare. “There. Now I suppose I should now ask about  _ your  _ clothes.”

He’s staring at her ankles, eyes wide in a way they hadn’t been on their wedding night when all of her was naked for his gaze. What a fascinating man, her husband. 

They find the beach and it isn’t until they’re certain it’s only the two of them that he removes his shoes and rolls his pants so they won’t get wet. His feet are whiter than the rest of him as if he rarely leaves even this part of him uncovered. Margaery loops her arm through his and leads him down towards the water.

#

That night, Dahlia lingers in their bedchamber, gaze flitting between Margaery and Stannis. Margaery can guess what her handmaiden wants to know.

“You may take your leave,” Margaery says. “I believe there’s a young man in the Prince’s Guard who’s waiting to take a moonlit walk with you.”

Dahlia casts her gaze down, but it doesn’t hide the blush that blooms across her cheeks. “My lady, my first priority is you.”

“I can undress myself tonight,” Margaery assures her. “This is a vacation for all of us. Enjoy yourself. And don’t worry about attending to me in the morning.”

“My lady!” Dahlia’s outrage is mostly for show. Her gaze darts to Stannis to see if he’ll pass judgement. 

Stannis is oblivious to their conversation, paging through a book Prince Doran had lent him with apologies, and a wink, for Margaery. She knows it’s a history of Dorne and knows it’s important for Stannis to learn more about this kingdom even if she was hoping for at least one day where her husband belonged to no one but her.

It would be hypocritical, she thinks, as Dahlia departs for her rendezvous, for Margaery to hold her husband’s split attention against him since she is hardly giving him her full attention. She’s split between Tyrell and Baratheon, between sister of the King and daughter of Loyalists. She’s split between Margaery-who-died and Margaery-who-has-yet-to-live. She’s not entirely sure who she is or what the right path is to tread.

She keeps her eyes open and her mind alert, trying to guess and plan and ensure her safety, and it means she can hardly give something like her marriage her full attention. 

But, for tonight, she can. 

Once Dahlia’s gone, the door shut firmly behind her, Margaery clears her throat. As she was hoping, Stannis turns, fingers guiltily slipping from the pages of the tome. 

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful,” Margaery says.

Stannis looks around as if he’s expecting another person here.

That explains how much he had been paying attention, then. Margaery turns so her back is to him. “I told Dahlia I wouldn’t require her services, but I’m afraid my dress is too complicated for me.”

“Ah.” Stannis sounds hesitant, but not uncomfortable. That’s something. 

Margaery turns to look at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps you could help me?”

She lifts her hair off the back of her neck and waits. First one step, then a second, until he’s standing close enough she can feel the heat of his body. Once there, he doesn’t seem to know what to do next.

“The ties,” she prompts.

His fingers are surprisingly nimble as he undoes the ties at her shoulders, and the whole dress slips to the floor. His soft, “Oh,” is gratifyingly breathy; due to the warm climate, she has nothing on underneath.

She drops her hair back down and turns. Stannis, charmingly, keeps his gaze on her face. 

She moves closer and he steps back. She smiles and herds him toward their bed, enjoying his shock when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed an he abruptly finds himself sitting.

“You’re not tired yet, are you?” she asks. 

#

It’s distressingly similar to their wedding night. No audience, thank the Seven, but he is focused and quick and then it’s over.

Margaery stares up at the ceiling when he’s finished and wonders how soon she can begin her campaign to show him that while bedding his wife is a duty, it doesn’t have to be an unpleasant one.

#

“Tomorrow, my work for the Crown begins,” Stannis says.

Margaery looks over from where she’s braiding her hair. It comes out nicer when Dahlia does it, but Court is far from here. The only person she needs to impress is her husband, and he doesn’t care about her hair. He’s too busy not looking at her.

“You’re prepared to talk citrus with Prince Doran?” Margaery asks, slightly bitter because he spent most of the day reading rather than talking to her. “Oranges and lemons and limes?”

“There are others,” Stannis says, and there’s a very slight lilt to his voice, an excitement she’s never heard before, but it disappears almost immediately. “It’s no matter.”

“You could tell me about them,” Margaery offers. Does he just really like citrus for some reason? She’ll try luring him into bed with orange slices if she has to.

“They take crates of them on long boat journeys,” Stannis says, after a pause to gauge the sincerity of her interest. “They help to prevent disease. As Master of Ships, it makes sense that I broker a trade.”

Her husband, so valiantly trying to cover up what he cares about with  _ duty _ . A thought occurs to her as he stands there, debating whether or not she actually cares to hear more about fruit trees or trade or dreadful diseases, whatever has caught his interest. She doesn’t, of course, but she’s listened to far duller things from far duller men.

Still, if he’s in a good mood... 

“If your work begins tomorrow,” she says, “shouldn’t we now concern ourselves with...other duties?” She drops her dress to the floor. “We have all day, and no one here will disturb us. How many times can you fill me before we’re forced to leave our bed?”

It’s probably cruel to laugh at his wide-eyed surprise so she bites it back, but she can’t help her smile. She slides into their bed and looks up at him as her hand skims down her stomach. 

He’s frozen, which is only promising in that he hasn’t actually run from the room.

“Did you have other plans for the day?” she asks, debates bending a knee and pretending at modesty but spreads her legs wide instead.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he says, managing to sound grumpy and offended.

Margaery slips her fingers into herself and tips her head back and  _ sighs _ . “Join me, husband.”

He stares, so he’s at least looking, but he’s been silent so long she’s a little afraid that she’s broken him. She also doesn’t care as much as she perhaps should, because it’s been too long since she’s had this kind of pleasure. Since her wedding, all she’s had is her husband, and he is either clueless or uninterested in her pleasure.

No more.

“It’s day,” he says again.

As if men and women only lie together at night.

In his world, maybe they do.

“Mm,” Margaery agrees and twists her fingers just right. She glances at her husband through heavy lidded eyes. He’s still standing there, still watching.

So. He wants to watch?

She doesn’t break eye contact at him as her pleasure builds, long familiarity with her own body letting her read the signs easily. Her breathing becomes sharper and quicker, and her eyes close as she reaches she poises right on the edge for an exquisite moment.

With a sweep of her thumb, she gasps and shudders, panting as she comes down, finally looking away so she can concentrate on enjoying the release. 

Only when her body calms does she focus on Stannis again. She’s quite proud of how glazed his eyes are. “I’ve made space inside myself for you,” she says. 

She doesn’t know how she could possibly be more blatant, but fortunately he finally recognizes the invitation, striding over to the bed with such determination he doesn’t immediately realize he still has all his clothes on. It’s not until he reaches for her and sees his own sleeves that he realizes, and stumbles back, flushing.

There’s a tense moment when she thinks he’s going to run for it, but he looks at her again, warm and naked and flushed, and he fumbles with his laces instead.

She hooks an ankle around his knee the second his trousers hit the floor, leading to some inelegant scrambling as he’s still got his boots on--and how he can even think about boots in this weather she’ll never know--but she’s determined not to let him ruin the moment, manhandling him into position between her legs.

“You can just--” she curls her fingers around his length and guides him into her. “Yes. Like that.”

She rolls her hips to meet him. Her skin buzzes this soon after finding her release, but it’s a good feeling. For the first time, she seeks her husband as he seeks her.

His hands are curled around her hips, but his gaze is reverant as he stares at her. “You’re wet.”

“I am. Makes this easier.”

_ Better _ , she thinks but knows not to say. 

He lasts longer like this; maybe, she thinks, because he doesn’t want it to be over so quickly. It means that she’s well on her way to finding her pleasure a second time when his fingers press harder into her skin and he snaps his hips in a way that makes her groan.

He immediately stops, pulling out, guilt and shame clouding his face.

“You stopped,” she says, her brain too fuzzy to come up with something more diplomatic.

“I hurt you.” He stares at the red imprints on her skin, left from his fingers.

“Hardly,” she says. “I could try and keep quiet if you’d like, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at it.”

Now, the guilt and shame harden into something that makes her wish for her clothes or even another person in the room.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks.

She wants to touch him, wants to draw him back to her, but something about the tight way he holds himself cautions her against it. How to handle this?

“We do things differently in the Reach,” Margaery says. She keeps her voice low, soothing, but tells him the truth. “Men do not lay with women and women do not lay with men unless they’re married. But to prepare them for that time, men lay with men and women with women. I haven’t since we were married.”

“This.” Stannis drags a hand down his face. He looks older somehow afterwards. “This is common practice where you’re from?”

She nods. 

“And it continues after marriage?”

“Often times. Husbands and wives cannot always give their full attention to each other. Sometimes, husbands must go on a trip or wives are uninterested. As long as no one is in danger of creating illegitimate children, no one is bothered. I--does this bother you?”

He touches her ankle, clearly making an effort to look less violent and terrifying, and makes a noncommittal noise.

She takes a deep breath, making a note to relay this conversation to Dahlia before she and Stannis next cross paths. Her husband is hardly the most observant of men, but even he is capable of drawing obvious conclusions when they’re shoved in his face. They’ll have to discuss the best approach. But for now...

“It’s supposed to help prepare us,” Margaery says, gently. Now she does reach for him, taking one of his hands one two of hers and drawing him closer. “To be better wives. I hope you aren’t displeased.”

“Not displeased,” he says, after a taut silence. Troubled, possibly. Preoccupied, definitely. If he were a different man then she’d worry about him asking to watch, but she doesn’t think he will. And she’s prepared to tell him no if he does ask. “And there’s been no one else since our marriage?” 

“No one,” she assures him immediately.

The silence grows increasingly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem to know what he thinks, or what to say.

“We still have the whole day to ourselves,” Margaery ventures. “I can show you what I’ve learned. And you can show me. There is still much for me to learn. It’s different with a man.” She draws him closer, her smile as gentle as her touch. “Show me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Margaery and Stannis walk with Prince Doran through the Water Gardens the next morning. They talk of citrus, which Margaery mostly tunes out. She watches the children play in the pools, laughing as they spray each other with water and try to push each other beneath the surface.

“Whenever anyone asks why I’ve made the choices I’ve made, I bring them here,” Doran says. He gestures to where Trystane is laughing with a child in dirty rags as they toss younger children into the deeper of the pools. “This is what I want to preserve. Happiness and joy, what is life without them? As long as our borders and our children are safe, I care not who sits on the Iron Throne.” He laughs when Stannis looks over at him, sharp and a little surprised. “Not a popular opinion, I’m sure. But I have seen war and what it can do. I don’t want to see it again unless it is necessary.”

He must be a true politician, Margaery thinks, because his words reassure both her and Stannis even though they hope for different things. If she listens to one layer then he has pledged his fealty to King Robert and won’t seek reparations for what was done to Dorne during the war. But on another level, Dorne is still a kingdom of loyalists and, given a better option, he’ll take it.

Once, the Tyrells wanted to help find that better option. Margaery has to convince them that they still do. Only, rather than putting Renly on the throne, she wants to see Stannis there.

“It’s a shame Shireen couldn’t come,” Margaery says. “I think she’d enjoy herself here.”

“Shireen?” Doran asks. It has to be out of politeness; there’s no chance a ruler as intelligent as he doesn’t know the name of the king’s own niece.

“My daughter from my previous marriage,” Stannis answers, almost smiling. Well. For Stannis, anyway. “She loves the sea, as cold and rough as it is on the rocky shores of Dragonstone, I’m sure she would love it here. She doesn’t often have the opportunity to play with other children, and she--” realizing he’s shown too much, he shuts his mouth and glares at the ground.

“She is a gentle child,” Margaery tells Doran. “Kind and generous. A tribute to her father.”

“You speak well of one that’s not your own,” Doran says. 

“I am wed to Stannis.” Margaery loops her arm through her husband’s. “What’s mine is his. And what’s his is mine.”

“And where is your daughter?” Doran asks.

“At home,” Stannis answers. “King’s Landing is no place for a child.”

“And Dorne?” 

“If we stay here long then I will send for her.”

“Dorne is a place for children to grow and thrive. She will find a place here as easily as you will.” Doran motions for them to pause by a pool. He holds his hand out and Areas hands him a staff. With a boyish grin, Doran sweeps the staff through the water until it sprays the nearby children.

They shriek and laugh and demand, “Again! Again!” as if they don’t realize they’re speaking to the Prince. Or maybe they do.

_ This,  _ Margaery thinks, is the kind of leader she wants to be. One who is loved by their people rather than feared. One who is never afraid to splash, or be splashed in return.

She laughs as the first brave child showers them in water. After the second, she slips off her shoes and wades into the pool to join them. Water is flung between highborn and lowborn and, after a conspiratorial wink with her new friends, Margaery splashes the feet of Prince Doran.

“Weak!” a boy says before he finds a bucket and throws a wave of water at the Prince. Most of it lands on his head, dripping down his hair and to his shoulders. He laughs as it begins an all out battle between the children in the pool and the adults on the path.

By the time they’ve finished, Margaery’s hair and gown are soaked through, and her cheeks are sore from smiling. She rejoins Doran and her husband. Doran is all smiles as well. Stannis shrugs out of his outer shirt and hands it to her. 

“Thank you,” she says and pulls it over her head. 

#

As easily as Doran and Stannis seem to take to each other, Oberyn and Stannis take an instant and intense dislike to one another. She suspects Oberyn reminds him of Robert, though that’s hardly fair to either man.

At the feast that night, Oberyn saunters over, the woman from before on his arm. They both smirk at Stannis, Oberyn sketching an insolent bow. The woman’s curtsy is borderline indecent. Stannis, of course, draws up as if they’re about to battle. 

“Oberyn Martell,” he says. His gaze lingers on Margaery like a caress. “At your service.”

Margaery politely ignores him but it does little to settle her husband.

“And I’m his paramor,” the woman introduces and smiles, like a victory, when Stannis grows even more dour.

“Are paramors allowed names in Dorne?” Margaery asks with an arch of her eyebrows. 

The woman turns to Margaery. “Ellaria, my lady.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ellaria.”

Both Oberyn and Ellaria look disappointed with Margaery’s reaction. Ellaria recovers first, shifting from a woman on the attack to one who is intrigued despite herself.  

Oberyn drops himself into a nearby chair, his legs sprawled out in front of him. “There’s a lot more pleasure once you’ve really made her acquaintance,” he says with a leer. 

Margaery grips her husband’s leg under the table in hopes of keeping him from saying, or doing, anything rash. Or at all.

Ellaria smacks Oberyn’s shoulder, playful but also, Margaery thinks, a little serious. But then she drops herself onto Oberyn’s lap and grins at Stannis, daring him to say something. 

“I hear you came here to get to you know your wife,” Oberyn says. “That won’t happen if you sit so far apart. Perhaps a lesson for our ambassador. A lesson from my people to yours.” He grabs a handful of Ellaria’s ass and yanks her closer until they can kiss. 

Margaery sees a glimpse of tongue.

Beside her, her husband makes a noise of scandalized protest.

Oberyn pulls back from Ellaria with a smacking of his lips. “You don’t like these lessons? Perhaps another then.” His hand slips up Ellaria’s thigh, aided by a high slit in her dress. 

It’s too similar to their bedding. This time, it’s Margaery who makes a small sound, barely heard. She grabs for her glass but misjudges the distance and almost knocks it over instead.

“Oh,” she says as they all stare, some mocking, some concerned. “Perhaps I’ve had too much to drink.”

“There’s juice,” Stannis says, and he hands her a clear pitcher full of a deep purple drink.

“More of your citrus?” she asks, tone light, almost teasing. 

“Grapes this time,” Stannis says. “Ground into a juice.”

“Waste of grapes,” Oberyn says. “Their best use is in wine.” He holds his own glass up for emphasis.

Ellaria plucks a cluster from a platter on the table and dangles them over Oberyn’s mouth. “This is my favorite.”

He grins at her and bobs his head up to catch a piece of fruit between his lips.

#

Stannis sticks by her side for the rest of the night and would linger with her the next day as well if he didn’t have a meeting with Prince Doran.

“I’m fine,” she assures him as she checks his attire to make sure nothing is out of place. “I’ll take a walk or wander down by the pools again.”

“You’ll take Brienne with you.”

An order, not a suggestion, but Margaery says, “As it pleases you,” regardless. 

They take their morning meal in the privacy of their room, smiling over slices of orange and Margaery taking the spicier of the meat and pushing the milder of it towards her husband. When they part ways, Stannis to his meeting and Margaery to her wanderings, Stannis surprises her by reaching out and catching her hand.

She turns back to him, confused then pleased as he brings her hand to his lips. 

He gives her a curt nod before releasing her and walking away.

Brienne, standing to the side, raises her eyebrows when Margaery returns to her side. 

“You’ve coaxed affection from him,” Brienne says. “To hear Renly speak of it, you have performed a miracle.”

“Everyone has affection within them,” Margaery says. “Will you escort me to the Water Gardens?”

“Of course, my lady.”

They spot a flower garden along the way and Margaery insists on a detour. There are shrubs carved into delicate shapes and flowers she’s never seen before. Some bloom in light pinks, other deep oranges. Others rise gracefully from their stems, orange petals shaped like the mouth of a bird. 

She trails her fingers over the flowers, then slips deeper into the garden. She follows the twists and turns of the path until, when she turns around, Brienne is nowhere to be seen. There is an enchanting fountain, though, and she runs her fingers through the water. Lilies float on its surface. She taps one with her finger and watches it float across the surface until it nudges another.

“You’ve found one of our lesser used gardens.”

Margaery turns at the voice, wary when she see Oberyn standing there. There’s no Ellaria shadowing him and no Brienne following her steps. She eyes his half-open shirt and the lazy smile on his face. 

“And yet you spend your time here? I thought you enjoyed an audience.”

Oberyn laughs and pulls a roll out of his pocket, motioning for her to take it. When she refuses his offer, he shrugs and bites into it. “I have been known to enjoy solitary pursuits. Tell me, Lady Margaery, how did a Tyrell become a Baratheon?”

“I know you have chosen to take a paramor, but there are some in Dorne who still hold more traditional views. You truly don’t know how a woman becomes of three houses rather than two?”

“Three?”

Margaery’s smile is unfriendly. “My mother’s house, my father’s house, and now my husband’s house.”

“Not the husband we thought you would take.”

Margaery glances at the knife he keeps strapped to his waist even though he’s in the heart of his own territory. “My husband is my protection. Not everyone can dedicate their lives to bluster and revenge.”

Oberyn takes a step forward, his tread soft and dangerous. “And when your husband isn’t here? When you’re alone? Ellaria can defend herself. That giant of a woman you brought with you, she knows how to handle a sword. You could’ve learned.”

A warrior’s path isn’t hers to tread. She picked one that is less blunt. She still relies on her strength and her wits, but differently than Brienne or even Ellaria. Margaery plays the game as it has been set before her. She doesn’t challenge the rules or flaunt them. She learns them and uses them to her advantage. 

Oberyn continues closer until he can lay his hand over hers. “You can still learn. There is still time to remove the Usurper.”

“Maybe it is  _ you _ who needs to learn. What do you care for who sits on the throne?” Margaery snatches her hand away and steps into his space, forcing him to yield to her. “As long as it isn’t a  _ Lannister _ . I know of you and your mission, Oberyn Martell. You care not for the peace of our realm but only for the whetting of your blade.”

“My  _ sister _ ,” Oberyn hisses. He grabs her arm, hard enough to be painful. “Only those so lucky as to have never experienced loss can lecture those who have.”

Margaery has known loss. She has seen firsthand what the Lannisters can do when they have power and motive. But she also knows that one revenge only prompts the creation of another and another until an entire kingdom is smoldering in the aftermath. She has seen that and survived and she will not permit it to come to pass again. 

“You presume to tell me what I have suffered and what I haven’t?” She yanks her arm from his grasp. 

“You are a spitfire.”

“Not all strength is wielded by a blade.” 

“My lady!” Brienne appears in their small clearing and she looks from Margaery’s stormy expression to Oberyn’s calculating one. Her hand inches towards her sword. “My lady?”

“There you are,” Margaery says, more relieved than she’ll show. “Can you believe I got myself turned around?” She walks over to Brienne. “Hopefully you remember the way out.” She loops her arm through Brienne’s and guides the woman towards the exit. She only pauses once to look back at Oberyn. “I am never alone,” she tells him then leads Brienne out of the garden.

#

Once they’re free of the maze of flowers, Brienne brings Margaery to her chamber and sends Dahlia for something to eat. 

“What happened?” Brienne demands. 

“A conversation. Nothing for you to unsheathe your sword about.”

Brienne takes a step forward, the second person today to think they can use their size and strength to intimidate her. Margaery holds her ground and stares down the woman. While she may have harbored some doubts about Oberyn, she knows Brienne will do her no harm. 

“And if I had not arrived when I did?” Brienne presses. 

“I had the situation under control.”

Brienne’s look implies that she doesn’t believe it, but before she can interrogate any further, Dahlia arrives with a pitcher of orange juice and a platter of pastries and fresh cut fruit. 

“Ah, food,” Margaery says. “I hope you’ll all partake with me.”

She smiles at Brienne, daring her to continue their conversation. The woman sighs and sits at the table, but she doesn’t say any more. Dahlia, Seven bless her, notices the tension but ignores it, telling Margaery about her morning walk and the people she’s met. 

Margaery spends the rest of the day in her room under the watchful eye of Brienne. She convinces Dahlia to continue on with her original plans for the day which means it’s only her and Brienne when Stannis returns from his visit with the Dornish contingent. 

Margaery and Brienne, who had been engaged in another silent battle, both startle when he comes through the door. Brienne goes so far as slide her chair back and Stannis looks between the two of them.

“Am I interrupting?” He glances at Margaery then looks away as if he thinks he shouldn’t stare. 

“Hardly,” Margaery says.

His gaze lingers on Margaery’s bare shoulders then he looks at Brienne who is conspicuously putting space between them. And Margaery suddenly understands what Stannis thinks he’s walked in on. 

“We were simply talking,” Margaery promises.

Brienne draws breath to disagree, no doubt, then thinks better of it. Of course, her hesitation only seems to strengthen Stannis’s resolve. 

“I will see you at the evening meal,” Stannis says. “Or later.”

He leaves before Margaery can convince him to say. She takes a deep breath and rubs her forehead. Was that storming off in a huff, or was that Stannis’s idea of being tactful? It seems a lot to ask a man to embrace such different customs so quickly, but she honestly expected him to be more upset than he was, and now she’s doubting herself.

“My lady?” Brienne asks, hesitant. 

“It’s nothing you did,” Margaery assures her. “I told him of The Reach’s custom of women laying with women, and he apparently thinks we need privacy.” As if she’d kick him out of his own chambers.

Brienne coughs, pounding on her chest as if there’s something in her throat she seeks to dislodge. “What?”

“You served Renly,” Margaery says. “You’re too good a warrior not to have noticed how close he was with my brother.”

Brienne’s cheeks flush adorably pink.

“In The Reach, it’s an accepted practice, encouraged even, because it helps decrease the number of children born out of wedlock. I explained the tradition to Stannis and apparently he’s drawn an incorrect conclusion. Apologies.”

“You and me?” Brienne says. She chances a glance at Margaery. 

“I would be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it,” Margaery says. “but I’m recently married, and you’ve recently entered into my service. The timing to broach the subject hasn’t been right.”

“You’ve…” Brienne shakes herself as if she can’t believe it. “What?”

“You’re beautiful and strong and kind, all things I find attractive,” Margaery says. She smiles, gentle, as Brienne’s face turns a startling shade of red. “But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I am, of course, perfectly capable of admiring a person without doing anything about it.”

“But you want to?” Brienne asks. “Do things with me?”

“Many,” Margaery purrs then regrets it a touch as Brienne looks uncomfortable. “But like I said, I can show restraint.”

“Why?” Brienne asks, utterly confused. 

Margaery’s smile gentles. “I told you. You’re beautiful and strong and kind.”

“Men find me unnatural.”

“I am not a man.” Margaery leaves her chair and approaches Brienne until she stands between her legs. Her fingers curl under Brienne’s chin and tips her face up. “I would be happy to show you exactly why. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or pressure you into anything you’re not ready for. You can think about it, or not. And if you  _ do _ want to try, I would be more than willing to welcome you into my bed.”

She taps Brienne’s cheek then steps away, leaving Brienne sitting there, stunned. 

Well, well. Perhaps Stannis was walking in on something after all.

#

Margaery joins her husband for the evening meal. He seems surprised when she arrives, but makes sure there’s space for her at their table and even puts together a plate for her. 

“Thank you,” she says as she takes her seat. She stares at her plate, a mixture of foods on some kind of flat bread, and doesn’t know what to do.

“Like this,” Trystane says before he rolls the bread around his meat and lettuce and tomatoes.

“Huh,” Margaery says. It takes her a couple tries to roll her dinner the way he did. “Thank you.”

Stannis nudges a bowl of what looks like chopped tomatoes towards her. “This is the spicier of the salsa.”

Because he knows that she likes her food with more flavor. She smiles and leans into his side.

#

They’re at yet another feast when Ellaria slinks over in a gold dress made of twists and ties. It moves with her, sinuous, but Margaery’s afraid one pull in the wrong place would unravel it. Not that Margaery has ever been particularly modest, but it seems impractical. 

“My darling,” Oberyn greets, holding a hand out to her.

When she grasps it, he kisses her palm then her wrist then the crook of her elbow. He reels her in, kissing her more and more until his lips find hers.

Stannis looks away from the display.

Margaery drinks her wine.

“Apologies,” Oberyn says when he finally breaks for air. He sounds far from sorry. “There is to be dancing tonight. Do either of you dance? Silly question.” He laughs as he looks at Stannis. “That would be  _ fun _ . Margaery, I’m sure you’ve been taught.”

“I have.”

“It would be shame for you not to enjoy yourself tonight. As a member of the royal family, I cannot in good conscience leave you here to languish.”

If he’s trying to rile up her husband then he succeeds. Under the table, Stannis reaches for a sword he doesn’t have. Margaery gives him her hand instead. 

“You’re right,” Margaery says, because she knows she won’t escape tonight without a dance. She enjoys dancing, and she’s cross Oberyn is making her dislike it in this moment. Maybe that’s why, when she stands, she extends her hand to Ellaria. “Would you do me the honor?”

Ellaria’s lips curl into a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

“And ours,” Oberyn says, his gaze lingering and for a moment Margaery is back in King’s Landing, bedsheet clutched to her chest as the whole court stares.

The memory leaves as quick as it comes. She brushes away the lingering unease and smiles brighter for tonight’s audience.

“If you are too tired,” Stannis begins, offering her an out.

She brushes a kiss over his cheek, a thank you and reassurance tied into one. “I was taught the Dornish dances as a young girl, but I haven’t had many opportunities to dance them.”

“They are passionate,” Oberyn says, snatching an unattended glass of wine.

“And fast,” Ellaria adds, “but I don’t think you’ll have difficulty keeping up.”

Margaery smiles and allows herself to be led to the floor. Someone must give a cue, because the band shifts into something more sultry. Everyone pauses their meals to look up at the lone figures on the floor.

“You are uncomfortable,” Ellaria says as Margaery tenses with so many eyes on her.

She forces herself to relax. She steps closer until her palm presses against the bare skin of Ellaria’s back. “They want a show. Are you prepared to give them one?”

“How good are you at following?” Ellaria asks.

“I am a noblewoman of Westeros.” Margaery lowers her eyes, demure. “I know nothing else.” Then she smirks, and Ellaria laughs.

They dance.

Margaery  _ is  _ good at following, moving where she’s nudged and waiting to take initiative until she understands. She trails her hand up Ellaria’s thigh. Someone, Oberyn most likely, whistles. Ellaria spins Margaery away then pulls her back in. Their bodies press flush against each other. Ellaria’s eyes glitter, impressed and also interested.

If she kept company with a different man, then... perhaps. But as it is, when the song ends, Margaery steps out of the woman’s hold. Oberyn stands and claps, prompting others to do the same.

Prince Trystane approaches as the clapping dies down. “My lady?” he asks.

Ellaria makes a twirling motion with her hand and the band plays something lively. Margaery accepts the young prince’s hand and dances a song with him when it’s finished., he walks her back to her table and her husband.

“You will make a fine leader one day,” she tells Trystane.

“You know,” Oberyn says, addressing Stannis. “When Ned Stark came to treat with Dorne, he brought my sister’s body so she could be laid to rest with her family.”

Margaery sucks in a sharp breath and Oberyn flicks a glance towards her, pleased, as if she gave him exactly the reaction he wanted. 

“What would you have me give you?” Stannis asks.

Oberyn’s lips peel back in what could generously be called a smile. “Her killer.”

“I will see what I can do.”

#

Margaery holds her protests until they’re alone, but once they’re in their bedchamber, she whirls on her husband. “You’re  _ leaving _ ? At the whim of a drunken womanizer?”

Stannis looks surprised by her outburst. “I hope you haven’t voice your opinion of the Prince to his people.”

“I’m voicing it to  _ you _ . You don’t need to do this.”

“I do,” he counters. He opens his trunk as if he means to pack and leave tonight. “He has buried his sister but now he needs to bury the feud. This is an open wound that will fester without intervention.”

Of course.  _ Now  _ is when her husband learns the value of diplomacy.

“Gregor Clegane has done unspeakable things,” Stannis continues. “It is past time that he answer for them.”

Margaery wants to throw a fit, but she knows it won’t help. Her husband is returning to King’s Landing to mete out justice. There’s only one thing left for her to do.

“You are leaving me behind, I presume.”

“It will be safer,” Stannis says.

She holds her hand out. “You won’t leave until the morning at the earliest. Leave me with pleasant memories to hold onto until your return.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for off-screen character death.

Margaery goes to the less frequented garden after seeing her husband off. She isn’t surprised to see Oberyn already there. She is surprised with how quick her fury springs, sharp and at the ready even though this is hardly the time or place for it. 

She resolves to be ladylike or, at the very least, ignore him.

He smirks at her, smug and  _ pleased _ , and her resolve snaps.

She had plans. Her plans had plans. She’s evaded Cersei, she and Stannis have evaded Robert. They escaped the cutthroat capital and if Oberyn Martell has ruined those plans; well, he’ll see how dangerous the women of Highgarden can be. 

“Is this a game to you?” she demands. 

The smile slips from his face. He’s stunned, perhaps by her outburst or by the strength behind it, but he rallies, shoulders tightening and gaze hardening. “My sister is  _ dead  _ because of the monsters sitting on the throne. None of this is a game.”

“Will it bring your sister back if my husband is lost to your revenge?” Margaery stands her ground as fear knots her stomach. The Mountain is a dangerous man. Her heart aches for what happened to Oberyn’s sister, but right alongside that ache is fear for her husband. Will he succeed in felling the Mountain? If he succeeds, will Robert seek to punish him for it? Will Cersei? Thank the Seven that Lord Tywin is still at Casterly Rock... 

“No. Neither will the bloody head of the Mountain. Nothing will bring my sister back.”

“Then why?”

“I want him dead so he can never hurt another person.” The hurt in Oberyn’s eyes is real enough. But there’s something else there. Something calculating. “And I want Stannis Baratheon to do it so we can see where his loyalties lie. To his brother, the Usurper King, or to his new wife?”

A deep sigh startles her. She spins so see Prince Doran, pushing his own chair. “Blunt, brother.”

“The truth. The time was, Lady  _ Baratheon _ , that your family saw eye to eye with ours.”

Margaery’s aware that she’s out-flanked and out-numbered, but she knows better than to show any weakness. “And we still do. The only way to ensure the realm doesn’t succumb to civil war or death by the surviving Targaryens is for there to be a Baratheon on the throne. Robert will drink himself into an early grave and leave Cersei as Queen Regent until  _ Joffrey  _ is of age. Is that what you want?”

Sensing her advantage, she pushes more. “Do you want Renly on the throne? There would be no heir and there would once again be a fight for the throne.”

“So you’re left with Stannis?” Oberyn asks.

“I  _ chose  _ Stannis. I chose the future my marriage to him opens up and gods help you if anything happens to him.”

Oberyn looks at her for a long moment before he throws his head back and laughs. 

If she’d been raised by a lesser house then she might’ve struck him for it. As it is, she keeps her hands fisted at her sides and  _ fumes _ . 

“Enough, Oberyn,” Prince Doran says. “Margaery is our guest and our friend. There’s no need to antagonize her.” He holds a hand out to Margaery. “Your husband will be fine.”

_ You can’t promise that _ , she thinks.  _ You have stayed away from Court and with good reason, but you can’t have forgotten what kind of vicious monsters the Lannisters are. Stannis is putting himself in the path of Robert again as well as Cersei. And killing the beloved  _ pet  _ of the Lannisters will earn him no favors and no friends.  _

“Your kindness is appreciated,” Margaery says. She even manages to sound pleasant. But her patience is frayed, and she risks making enemies if she stays. “If I may take my leave.”

“If I say no?” Oberyn asks. 

“Of course you may go,” Prince Doran says with a sharp look at his brother. 

Margaery gathers her skirts and sweeps out of the garden. She doesn’t realize how much she’s trembling until she’s safely back in her rooms. Her hands shake as she lowers herself onto her chaise. She knocks over her glass and decides a drink can wait.

“My lady?” Dahlia emerges from their connected room, and she gasps, no doubt at the pallor of Margaery’s skin. “Where have you been? And what has happened to you?”

She rushes to Margaery’s side and touches a hand to her forehead then her cheeks.

“It’s a test,” Margaery says. “They have sent Stannis to kill the Mountain as a  _ test _ .”

“He has faced challenges before,” Dahlia assures her. “He is a great warrior.”

A great tactician is not necessarily a great warrior, and neither is much good against an animal like Gregor Clegane. And there is still Cersei to consider. 

But there is nothing she can do about any of it right now.  _ She _ can hardly fight the Mountain, and Cersei is cruel and vindictive, unpredictable except that whatever choices she makes, they’ll be to inflict the most harm she can manage. Margaery antagonized her at the bedding, and if Cersei decides to target Margaery’s husband for her revenge; well, Margaery will see  _ her  _ burn.

Somewhat comforted, Margaery sits up.

“No, my lady,” Dahlia chides. She guides her back down. “Rest today. No one will fault you for it.”

It’s a weakness but one she allows herself, drawing Dahlia onto the chaise with her. When she traveled back to this time, she surrounded herself with family; her Grandmother, Loras, even Renly. She found a husband, someone to stand at her side and protect her. 

But now, she is in Dorne while her husband sails for King’s Landing and her family is all the way in Highgarden. She is alone.

The last time she was cut off from her people like this was when she was held prisoner. 

It’s the memories more than her current situation that stokes the fear in her heart. Prince Doran is nothing like Cersei, she reminds herself.  _ I am safe here. _

#

The next morning, Brienne is at her door to bring her to the morning meal.

“Or we can take it here,” Brienne says. She glances at Dahlia as if to check that she’s said the right thing.

Margaery, aware that she’s being handled, glances between the two women. 

Dahlia sighs. “Subtlety, Brienne.”

“I think I’ll begin the day here,” Margaery says. “We can take a walk along the beach this morning, unless you have other plans.”

“Your plans are our plans,” Brienne says.

Dahlia looks up towards the ceiling. 

#

Margaery can’t keep entirely to herself. Her husband has left to work the ambassadorship from his end, and she needs to affirm their commitment from this one. As furious as she is with Oberyn, they’ll need Dorne when they’re on the throne. And, Seven forbid something happen to Stannis, she’ll need them even more.

Stannis has been gone for quite some time when Margaery first feels unwell. Her limbs feel heavy and her chest aches. She doesn’t think much of it until the first morning she spends emptying the contents of her stomach.

“Oh,” Dahlia says when Margaery emerges from the small room off the bedroom. “ _ My lady _ .”

Margaery smiles despite the weakness in her body. She rests a hand over her stomach. “It is a good day.”

“It certainly is, my lady.”

Margaery adjusts her diet and takes two short walks each day and writes to her grandmother for advice. She has lived and died, been Queen and been prisoner but she’s never been pregnant. It’s new, almost a miracle, and she feels as if she’s constantly glowing.

Brienne is careful with her these days, almost too careful. She always has a guiding hand on Margaery’s back or a supportive one on her arm. She hovers as if Margaery might collapse at any moment and handles her as if she’s fragile. Sometimes, it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s aggravating.

“Do you think you’ll be summoned to King’s Landing once the King realizes you’re with child?” Prince Doran asks.

Margaery rests a hand on her stomach, the bump now undeniable. “Soon I won’t to be able to travel.”

“Would you like to return to Highgarden for the birth? No one here would think less of you.”

“I would like my husband by my side,” she answers with a glance at Oberyn. “But since I cannot, I will rely on my friends.”

“I hope we are counted among them.”

Margaery smiles and holds her hand out. “Of course you are, Prince Doran.”

Oberyn huffs. “I didn’t think Stannis would find success so easily.”

Doran pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Pray he finds success with your task just as quickly,” Margaery says. “If I am forced to give birth without my husband then I will be quite cross.”

#

Margaery is at the afternoon meal, her plate filled with the bland and tasteless fare that is all she can keep down these days, when a young boy hurries to the high table and bows. His clothes are stiff with salt water and his cheeks are pink and freckled from time spent at sea.

“My lord,” he says. Then, to Margaery, “My lady. I bear news from King’s Landing.”

Margaery’s head leaps into her throat. “From my husband?”

“From the King, my lady.” The boy ducks his head as if he’s used to harsh words for delivering undesirable news. “It’s addressed to you, though.”

Margaery holds her hand out for the letter. With the other, she offers him a few coins. “Would you like to sit and eat with us before you have to return to your ship?”

He glances at the food on her plate then at the Prince and shakes his head.

“At least let Dahlia send you with something,” Margaery suggests.

Unable to say no a second time, the boy happily follows Dahlia away from the highborns. Margaery unfolds the small paper, wondering what Robert felt the need to tell her directly and why he sent a boy instead of a raven. 

She gasps as she reads then covers her hand with her mouth.

“Lady Margaery?” Prince Doran asks.

Margaery hands the note to Brienne so she can protectively curl her free hand around her stomach. She knows Robert is neither a good person nor a good king but--

“The Targaryen children are dead,” Margaery says. Their king is a child killer. There is no love lost between her and the Targaryens but they were still children. And if he kills those who are a threat to him…

Her arm tightens around her stomach as if she can somehow protect her unborn child.

“They’re what?” Prince Doran asks.

_ Looks like we’re the only friends each other has left _ .

“King Robert’s rule is now secure,” Margaery says. “There are no more threats to his throne.” Besides the one he’s married to, that is.

“Lady Margaery,” Prince Doran begins.

She waves off what he has to say as she stands. “I need some air. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, my lady. Would you like company?”

She holds her arm out to Brienne. “Would you?” she asks.

“Of course.” Brienne stands on Margaery’s other side so she can draw her sword if need be. Margaery hopes it won’t be necessary, but Robert is unpredictable and his temper and insecurity make him lethal.

Margaery shakes her head when Brienne turns her towards the garden.

“I want to be somewhere open.” She wants to see if there is a threat. She doesn’t want to be surprised by people or wonder what’s behind that hedge or this statue.

They turn towards the water instead. Margaery doesn’t speak as they leave the crowded courtyard. She stares out at the ocean, wondering where her husband is and when he’ll return to her. She hopes he’s safe wherever he is.

It isn’t until they’re along the coast and there’s no one in sight but Brienne that Margaery says. “They were children. Is anyone safe?”

“My lady -”

“A good king should make his people feel safe and protected. All we know is fear and uncertainty.”

“My lady,” there’s a note of urgency in Brienne’s voice, a warning.

“It’s only us,” Margaery says. But she understands the caution. “Stannis is kind though he hides it. And Renly can be kind when he stops thinking about himself long enough to think about others. How is one brother so different?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne says.

“But you do know what we’re doing here, Prince Doran and I.” Margaery catches Brienne’s gaze. “If you want to find employment elsewhere then now is your time. My child will grow up in a better Westeros.”

“My place is by your side,” Brienne says.

#

Margaery’s stomach is quite swollen by the time news reaches them that the Mountain has been slain.

The babe kicks inside her on the afternoon her husband returns to Dorne.

Stannis pauses as soon as he sees her, staring openly, until Prince Doran clears his throat and says, “Welcome back, ambassador.”

“Thank you. I have brought proof of my promise, but it is not a sight fit for everyone gathered here,” Stannis says, effectively to Margaery as he can’t take his eyes off her.

“We’ve heard news of your success,” Prince Doran says. “I’m afraid it’s not the only news which has reached our ears.”

Stannis’s expression grows dour. Well, more dour. Margaery is overcome with fondness for his grumpiness, and likely does not hide it well. “There is much for us to discuss,” Stannis says.

“Yes,” Prince Doran agrees, not bothering to conceal his smile. “But that can wait. I believe there is happier news for you first.”

Stannis sketches a small bow then he’s finally striding towards Margaery. He kisses her hand and, if they weren’t in public, she thinks he would drop to his knees and kiss her stomach.

She guides his hand to her stomach in time for the baby to kick.

Years fall off Stannis’s face as he smiles, the first real smile she’s ever seen from him. His palm rests against her stomach and she links their free hands together.

“I’m glad you have returned to me safely,” she murmurs.

“I as well.”

“Would you like to rest? You have had a difficult journey. No one can expect you until the evening meal. Be mine until then.”

It’s a push, maybe, but Stannis agrees, leading her back to their chambers. Margaery finds a comfortable position on the bed then coaxes her husband to join her.

“I was worried you wouldn’t be here for the birth.”

“I’m here.” He touches her cheek as tenderly as he touches her stomach. 

“I was worried about many things.” She touches his stubbled cheeks then his shoulders. She wants to touch all of him, confirm that he’s here with here and unharmed. “Children, Stannis.”

“Not ours.”

_ Do you know yet that none of us are safe as long as he’s on the throne? Have you begun to think about what we’ll have to do? _

#

Margaery gives birth as the sun rises, light pouring through her open window. It’s pain, consuming, aching, blinding pain but then she’s being handed her child. Her  _ son _ . The tears that fill her eyes now are relief and joy.

“Tell my husband that the future Lord of Dragonstone has entered the world,” she tells Dahlia.

Her handmaiden beams. “With pleasure, my lady.”

As soon as Dahlia passes on the good news, Margaery’s husband bursts into the room. He looks as exhausted as Margaery feels, worry dragging down the corners of his mouth.

“He is alive?” Stannis asks, soft, as if he’s afraid to believe it.

Their son chooses that moment to exercise his lungs, crying as loudly as he can manage. Stannis approaches the bed then hesitates.

“Join us,” Margaery says. She brushes her fingers across their son’s cheeks, the skin impossibly smooth.

He pauses his squalling and looks up at her, his eyes full of unshed tears.

“Welcome to the world,” she tells him. “Would you like to meet your father?”

She carefully passes their son to his father. Stannis holds him as if he’s afraid the boy will disappear. Margaery curls into his side and smiles even as her eyes grow heavy.

“Don’t leave me,” she murmurs.

Stannis runs his hand through her sweaty hair. “We’ll be here when you wake.”

#

Dahlia is delighted by the baby.

Brienne is terrified by him.

Stannis holds him as much as he’s able and ignores the teasing from Oberyn, which would seem odd given the man has eight children of his own, but it’s Oberyn. Margaery slowly regains her strength, venturing out of her bedchamber to sit in the gardens with her family then take short walks. 

“Next time, I want to be home when I give birth,” Margaery says.

“Next time?” Stannis asks.

“We’ll need many children if we’re to rule the Stormlands.”

_And_ _Westeros_. 


	11. Chapter 11

“Robert wishes to congratulate us on the birth of our son,” Stannis tells her once she’s regained enough strength that she doesn't need anyone to hover. They still do, though.

Margaery wrinkles her nose. “I expected a message sooner,” she says as delicately as she can, not wanting to outright insult the King, but very concerned as days went by with no word from the Red Keep.

Stannis shakes his head. “He is on his way to Winterfell.”

“ _ Winterfell _ ?”

“I believe he is displeased that we have found happiness and a family as quickly as we have. He wants to bring me to Winterfell to see how I compare to Eddard Stark as ambassador to Dorne.”

She doesn’t want to be separated from her husband again, but she also doesn’t want to travel to Winterfell.

“It’s a long way for King Robert to travel. Why doesn’t he ask Eddard Stark to come to King’s Landing?”

“It’s a multi-purpose visit. The whole royal family is going. There are rumors of a marriage negotiation.”

_ Sansa _ , Margaery realizes. She takes a fortifying breath. “Then I supposed we should pack.”

#

They arrive in Winterfell before the royal contingent, traveling mostly by boat for speed and in deference to Margaery’s health. They’re offered a carriage at White Harbor, but by then she’s determined to ride.

Margaery, in thick furs, her son clutched to her chest, is helped off her horse by her husband before they’re greeted by the entire Stark family. Robb whose death was turned into sick entertainment at her wedding in her other life, the Greyjoy boy, the bastard, and - her gaze falls on Sansa.

She’s so  _ young _ and pain hasn’t yet hardened her eyes. She curtseys and offers Margaery a small smile.

“You must be Sansa,” Margaery says. She touches a lock of Sansa’s hair then stares at her dress. “You have to tell me of Northern fashion. I have been in Dorne lately and I fear the climates are quite different.”

Sansa’s face lights up in a smile. “I would like that very much.”

#

The evening meal is loud and somewhat chaotic with so many people at one table. Arya is trying to coax fighting lessons from Brienne while the older boys switch between eating and poking the youngest of the children.

Ned and Stannis are in serious conversation and Margaery just keeps looking around and smiling because everyone is  _ alive _ .

And she is determined to keep it this way.

After their meal, Margaery reluctantly gives her son to Dahlia.

“It’s hardest with your first,” Catelyn says with a glance at Robb.

“I hope to be as blessed as you.”

Catelyn laughs and pats Margaery’s arm. “You are young and beautiful. I’m sure your husband will be glad to ‘bless’ you.”

It’s Margaery’s turn to laugh, delighted with Catelyn’s candor. “My husband is a kind and honorable man. The gods have already blessed me. And your daughter may be engaged soon if I understand correctly. A great honor.”

Catelyn frowns as she looks over at her daughter, peacefully stitching as Arya and Jon run around, a whirlwind of distraction. “She’s still so young, and King’s Landing is far away.”

And neither King nor Queen have a reputation for kindness. Joffrey is not well known yet outside of King’s Landing, but he’ll soon show his true colors as well.

“There is no one closer?” Margaery asks.

“She wants to be a princess, and Ned and Robert are close friends. You have spent time in King’s Landing. Have you met Joffrey?”

Margaery breaks eye contact. “I was glad for my husband’s ambassadorship.”

“Ah,” Lady Catelyn says.

“Does your husband love your children as much as you?”

“He does.”

“Then you must pray he sees the truth,” Margaery answers. “It’s a cruel world that takes children from their parents.”

“It is,” Catelyn agrees.

#

Her son is mobile by the time the Royal Family arrives in Winterfell. He hates being held now that he’s figured out how to travel on his own. He twists and squirms and reaches for the floor any time he’s forced to leave it, and she counts her blessings that he rarely cries during the ordeal of being held by his mother.

“This must be my nephew,” Robert says. He sways on his feet and his breath reeks of wine.

Maragery keeps her face impassive as Robert smacks a loud, wet kiss to her son’s forehead. The squirming grows worse as Cersei turns her sharp gaze on him. Fortunately, her only reaction is to curl her lip, finding either mother, or child, wanting.

The look she levels at Margaery promises that Cersei hasn’t forgotten the humiliation of Margaery's wedding night. She’s suddenly very aware that she's far from home in a battered keep in the North. She’s among the King’s friends who may not be the Queen’s friends, but they’re certainly not Margaery’s.

“So you finally figured it out,” Robert says with a hearty slap to his brother’s back. “I expect another soon.  _ This  _ bed isn’t one you’re trying to stay out of.”

Robert laughs even as both Stannis and Ned stiffen with the crudeness of his words. Catelyn glances at the children, her gaze lingering on Sansa the longest, but she can’t shield them now, not from the King. 

“Ned,” Robert greets, his voice warm. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.” He pulls Ned into a hug, showing affection that Margaery’s never seen bestowed on his brother or his wife.

Ned hugs back, the tight embrace of men who have bled for each other on a battlefield.

_ How far does this loyalty run? Will you protect your daughter against your friend’s demands _ ?

“Would you like food or rest first?” Ned asks.

“Food, of course! It’s like you’ve forgotten me!”

Robert laughs, a booming sound which makes Margaery’s son whimper and turn his face into her neck. Ned’s laugh is a paltry echo, but it pleases the king and they adjourn for the banquet hall.

There, Margaery reluctantly hands her son to Dahlia.

“Keep him in your sight at all times,” Margaery murmurs. 

“I will keep him safe,” Dahlia promises.

Robert, showing proof that he understands neither his friends nor his family, insists on three tables, one for the children, one for the men, and one for the wives. Sansa casts a longing look at the wives’ table, but no one invites her to join.

“Eager,” Cersei says, because of course she noticed.

“We don’t have many visitors in the North. She’s curious,” Catelyn defends.

“She’s pretty enough, I suppose.” Cersei’s gaze drags over Sansa as if she’s cataloguing every physical attribute and finding her wanting. “Joffrey could do worse.”

Catelyn bristles and Cersei’s smile turns sharp.

“They’re quite young,” Margaery says.

“You were an older bride, were you not?” Cersei asks. “I suppose that explains your situation.”

“I have a loving husband,” Margaery says, “and a healthy son. The gods have blessed me.”

“Loving?” Cersei laughs bitterly as she pours herself a full cup of wine. “Baratheon men don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Margaery’s gaze is drawn to the kids’ table. One of Winterfell’s cats slinks under the table, searching for someone to feed it scraps. There’s an agitated meow before it scurries away.

Joffrey looks triumphant.

“Did you just kick Lyarra?” Sansa asks. There’s a hint of disbelief in her voice and a thread of longing as if she wants Joffrey to tell her she’s wrong. 

“I despise beggars,” Joffrey answers. “If the cat is hungry then there are plenty of mice. Let it earn its dinner.”

Some of the shimmer fades from Sansa’s eyes. It’s replaced with hurt and something guarded.  _ Good _ , Margaery thinks.  _ See him for what he is and protect yourself. _

Arya stares down her father, searching for justice.

Ned Stark bows his head.

#

Margaery insists that their son share their room and Stannis doesn’t protest. They place his crib within reach of their bed. Margaery lays on her side so she can watch him sleep, a little bundle of furs. 

“I have my sword,” Stannis says. “And Brienne is in the next room. Our son is protected.”

She appreciates that he doesn’t say safe when they both know it isn’t true.

“How soon can we leave?” Margaery asks.

“My brother will have to tire of us as entertainment.”

Not soon then.

“Is it true Robert wants to see a marriage between Sansa and Joffrey?”

“He wants to secure his allies.”

“Joffrey…” Margaery trails off, unsure of what she can say. He is the son of the King. “Who protects Sansa?”

“Ned Stark does. He’s an honorable man.”

For once Stannis doesn’t say it like an accusation, but Margaery is not comforted. The ‘honorable’ Ned Stark lost his head once, he could do it again.

#

Margaery studies the Starks the next day. Robb and Jon have too much heart. They’re  _ soft _ . Sansa is young and innocent, unaware of the danger that’s come to take her from home, her fierce Northern heart buried under girlish delight at pretty things and fine manners. Arya is sharp, but too blunt for the sharpness to protect her. And the little boys are  _ boys _ , the youngest scarcely older than her own son.

This is a happy family on the brink of losing everything.

“Don’t tell me you’re already planning more.”

Margaery’s thoughts are interrupted by Jaime Lannister. He’s lost his armor, a bold choice given the North’s attitude toward Lannisters, even if he is the Queen’s brother. His clothes have a giant lion stitched across the front in case anyone can’t recognize him on sight.

“Not a fan of children?” Margaery asks.

“I’m a member of the Kingsguard. There will be no children for me.”

_ Except the three you have with your sister? _

“I didn’t ask if you planned to sire any. I asked if you liked them. As a Kingsguard you may be called upon to protect them, no?”

“I dispatch my duty because it’s what our King commands, not because of personal feelings.”

“Ah,” Margaery says. She looks at Bran and Rickon, who have coaxed Tommen into some sort of game involving a board and carved wooden pieces. “And yes, I hope for more. Like you, I follow our King’s command, and he has ordered Stannis and I to bear the Baratheons that others don’t.”

She feels Jaime tense beside her. Honestly, it’s baffling that he and Cersei kept their secret for so long.

“King Robert made it very clear that he doesn’t believe Renly will produce children,” she continues innocently.

“Unless there’s something your brother has been hiding.”

She ignores that. “I’m surprised that you and Lord Tyrion made the trip.”

“My place is with the King.”

“With the whole royal family in attendance, no doubt he wanted his Kingsguard nearby.”

He gives her a sharp look. “It is my duty and honor.”

“Of course.” She really should stop baiting him. “I see Tommen is inspired by your example.”

The poor lad has picked up a sparring sword, but looks like he’s not sure which end to hold. He stumbles over his own feet and falls, sniffling when he drops the sword on his foot.

“And so lovely, the image of his lady mother,” Margaery continues.

Jaime finally seems to have got a hold of himself, because he merely shrugs. “The Lannisters are an old bloodline, and a strong one. All the royal children favor her in coloring, though you can see their father in them as well.”

On the other side of the room, Joffrey throws a fit when Arya bests him at whatever game they’re playing, howling like a much younger child and throwing dirt and clumps of hay.

“You certainly can,” Margaery says.

#

Later in the day, Margaery takes her son for a walk. She passes the practice yards, where Brienne is training with Arya. By the stables, her husband is talking with one of the older boys as they each groom a horse. 

“Are you going riding?” Margaery asks, her voice carrying easily over the short distance.

She hopes the answer is no. She wants her husband close until they can finally leave this place and return home.

“Not today,” Stannis says. “But the horses need attending even if they haven’t been ridden if they’re to perform their best.”

Margaery smiles, unable to help the affection in the curve of her lips.

“This is Jon Snow,” Stannis introduces.

“The bastard,” Jon supplies. He winces then sketches a quick bow. “Uh, hello, my lady.”

“There’s no need to be so formal,” Margaery assures him. “And I did not mean to intrude. I wanted a walk to clear my head. I should return to Dahlia soon.”

“May I?” Stannis asks, holding his arms out.

Margaery transfers their son to Stannis’s protective hold. “I’m not sure the cold agrees with him.”

“Perhaps tonight, Lord Stark and I can discuss Dorne,” Stannis says.

“You’re leaving soon?” Jon asks, his disappointment obvious.

“I am the Lord of Dragonstone and Ambassador to Dorne. That’s where we belong.”

“Of course,” Jon says.

Margaery recognizes the look on the boy’s face, disappointment mixed with longing.

Her husband must see it too because, “Have you ever seen the Stormlands?”

“No, my lord.”

“Would you like to? I can speak to your father.”

“I - you -” the boy stakes a steadying breath. “If you think I could be of use. I don’t wish to be a burden.”

Their son gurgles happily and Stannis’s severe expression gives way to a soft smile, one she’s seen more and more of since giving birth. “I will speak to him of it tonight.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

#

Tonight, there is one long table for everyone to sit at. Margaery is beside her husband, which unfortunately, means she is near the King and Queen as well.

“As you know, this is only a visit,” Stannis tells Ned and a few seats down, Jon’s head snaps up. “When I leave, I would ask your permission to take one of your sons with me.”

Lady Catelyn looks alarmed.

Ned looks amused. “Oh?”

“Jon has an excellent sense for horses, and he has acquitted himself well in the practice yard. I would like to offer him an opportunity to become a knight. With your permission, of course.”

Robert laughs. “First you make a  _ girl  _ your heir and now you want a bastard for a knight?”

“I believe that it is a man’s nature and his upbringing that determine the kind of man he shall be.” Still looking at Ned, Stannis adds, “I would be honored to be guarded by your son.”

“You’ve spent too much time in Dorne,” Robert says.

“Or maybe his young wife wants something young and pretty to look at,” Cersei suggests.

Jon flushes bright red.

Margaery’s too well-trained to do such a thing. She does, however, put a restraining hand on her husband’s thigh. “Is that your secret to a long, happy marriage? Filling your husband’s guard with those you enjoy looking at?” Her gaze flits to Jaime for the barest of seconds.

Cersei’s lip curls in a sneer. “What are you suggesting?”

“I suggest nothing,” Margaery answers smoothly even as her heart pounds inside her chest. “I only seek advice from a woman who has seen more of life than I have.” She lowers her gaze, deferential. “You are my queen and I learn from your example.”

Robert laughs, too loud for the quiet of the room. “Your boy’s virtue will be safe,” he tells Ned. “I can’t promise he’ll end up a better fighter. I know if I had a choice to train under you or my brother then I would choose you. I suppose you have enough sons that you can spare one.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

“No need for such formality. We’re friends, are we not? And sure to be even closer.”

Sansa, smart girl, keeps her head down and her focus on her meal even as every adult stares at her then Joffrey turn. Joffrey doesn’t duck his head. Rather, he meets each stare with an imperious one of his own.

Shivers crawl down Margaery’s spine, and she is grateful her son is safely out of sight.

“Will Sansa have to leave if she’s married?” Bran asks.

Joffrey rolls his eyes. “Of course. It would hardly be right for my princess to be so far away from me.”

Now, Sansa offers a wan smile. Joffrey takes it as a victory and his smirk grows.

“You will enjoy the fashion of King’s Landing,” Margaery says, hoping to ease the tremor in Sansa’s hands before it’s noticed by anyone else.

“Will you be there?” Sansa asks, hopeful.

“Not often. We have a home in Dragonstone and an ambassadorship in Dorne. I’m afraid it doesn't leave much time for King’s Landing.”

“Unless I return the ambassadorship to its rightful owner,” Robert says.

Both Stannis and Ned grow still, as if stillness will keep them from being noticed.

Robert laughs but the tension doesn’t break. “I wouldn’t send you so far away, friend. I’d rather have you at my side. Any position on my small council, name it and it's yours.”

“I thank you for the offer,” Ned says, “but I’m needed here.”

“Have your sights set higher, then? I’m sure Jon Arryn could be persuaded to retire if you wish to be Hand of the King.”

“My place is in Winterfell.”

Robert slams his palms on the table, making goblets and pitchers tremble. His face is a mottled red, anger and drink an unhappy mix. “Your place is where your king commands it.”

Ned’s gaze is steady and unafraid. “And where does my king command me?”

It feels as if the entire hall holds its breath as they wait for Robert’s answer.

He finally opens his mouth. He belches, loudly, and Cersei wrinkles her nose.

“It’s time to retire,” Robert decides. He holds a hand out to Cersei.

There’s a moment where Margaery thinks she might refuse before she places her hand in her husband’s. She glares at Margaery as if this is her fault. 

The children leave the table as well until it is only Ned, Catelyn, Robb, Stannis, and Margaery.

“The Queen,” Catelyn begins then thinks better of it.

“She has not forgiven me for my wedding night,” Margaery says. “I don’t hold out much hope that she ever will.”

“Your wedding night?” Catelyn asks.

Stannis grows uncomfortable at her side. For his sake, she should politely demure. But for Sansa’s she must speak.

“The King wished for an open bedding,” Margaery answers, her voice a shamed whisper. “I knew not what I was doing. The King and Queen,” she looks away. “They provided a demonstration.”

Catelyn covers her mouth with her hand, but it doesn’t muffle her gasp.

As if finding her courage, Margaery raises her gaze to Ned. “If Sansa is to marry Joffrey, you should accept a position in the King’s Landing. Perhaps your presence there -” Margaery cuts herself off.

“Robert has changed since the war.”

Stannis scoffs. “He hasn’t changed. Gained more opportunity, perhaps, but this is who he’s always been.”

“I don’t want Sansa to go,” Catelyn says.

“How does one say no to the King?”

“One doesn’t,” Stannis answers. “Jon Arryn has been too soft. Perhaps a change in Hand will be good for the Kingdom.”

_ Or perhaps a change in King _ , Margaery thinks.

#

Margaery’s watching Arya wrestle with her direwolf when Bran sprints into the courtyard. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide, and he almost crashes into Stannis, because he isn’t paying attention to where he’s running.

Stannis catches him with two steady hands on his shoulders.

“I need my father,” Bran says. He trembles in Stannis’s hold. He looks over his shoulder as if he expects to see someone chasing after him. “I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”

Arya stops playing with her direwolf.

Robb and Jon stop wrestling.

Even Brienne stops her sword forms. 

Bran, realizing he has everyone’s attention, draws in on himself. 

“It’s okay,” Stannis tells him. He kneels down so he’s closer to Bran’s height. “You can tell me what you saw.”

Bran takes a steadying breath then freezes when King Robert and Ned Stark round the corner. They’re having a heated discussion, but they pause when they see Bran and Stannis.

“Is something wrong?” Ned asks. 

Bran’s gaze darts to the King before he shakes his head. 

“He said he saw something,” Theon tells.

Bran looks alarmed. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“What did you see?” Ned asks.

Bran shakes his head.

“It’s okay, son,” Robert says. “You’re among family.”

Bran glances at his father again. At Ned’s nod, he says, “I saw the Queen.”

_ Oh _ , Margaery thinks. She looks up at the tower and wonders what happened this time that he wasn’t pushed out the window. Was he not spotted? Does that mean Cersei and Jaime are still…

“You saw the Queen,” Robert prompts.

Ned looks concerned. “Maybe it isn’t anything.”

“Don’t be daft. Bran wouldn’t make a big deal out of nothing,” Robert says. “What did you see my wife doing?”

At the word wife, Bran pales and sways. Stannis steadies him again with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You were just in the tower?” Margaery asks. At Bran’s fearful expression, she offers him a gentle smile. “Were you climbing again?”

“Don’t tell Mother.”

“I won’t,” Margaery promises. “But you were climbing the tower and saw Cersei?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” he rushes to say. He focuses on Margaery as if he’s decided she’s safe. “But she wasn’t alone. She, uh,” Bran falters again.

“Was she with Ser Jaime?” Margaery prompts. 

Bran’s nod is slow and tiny but there. “They were loud.”

“Like they were fighting?” Margaery asks.

Bran shakes his head but can’t bring himself to say anything else. 

“What did you see?” Robert demands.

Bran flinches and tries to hide behind Stannis.

“We haven’t seen them come down,” Margaery ventures. “Perhaps, if you’re quiet, you could see what Bran saw.”

Robert nods, a short jerk of his head. “Ned, with me. Stannis too.”

Margaery stays behind with the kids. Ned shakes his head when Robb and Jon try to go with them. Robb, especially, looks unhappy to be excluded, but he stays.

Margaery draws everyone close to her.

“So?” Theon demands. “What did you see?”

“You don’t have to answer,” Margaery tells Bran.

He looks at Margaery then at Brienne. “I shouldn’t say with ladies present.”

“I’m not a lady,” Brienne says. 

“Were they unclothed?” Margaery asks.

Bran stares at the ground as he nods.

“Why would they -” Robb cuts off, a disgusted expression on his face. “But they’re -”

“And the King’s about to walk in on them?” Jon asks.

“He has a heavy tread,” Margaery says. “Maybe they’ll be decent before he arrives.”

_ Or maybe he’ll catch them and the Kingdom will learn that the King’s children are not actually his children. Maybe… _

“If they are together -” Sansa falls quiet. “The royal children - they’re quite blond.” She quickly shakes her head. “Not that I would say, or even imply -”

“But maybe there won’t be a marriage arranged for you at the end of this visit,” Margaery says. 

They can hear Robert’s bellow of rage even if they can’t understand his words. 

“Perhaps we should find somewhere else to be,” Margaery says.

“Are you mad?” Theon asks. 

Robb elbows him. “Watch your tongue!”

“Have you ever had the King’s temper directed at you?” Margaery asks. “You would not be so quick to stand in his path if you had. Where are Rickon and Lady Catelyn?”

“Where’s the Imp?”

It’s Jon’s turn to elbow Theon. “ _ Lord Tyrion _ is in town.”

“Visiting  _ your  _ favorite friends.” Robb smirks. “I heard they like him better than you.”

An explosion of noise distracts them. Robert bursts into the courtyard, dragging Cersei by her long hair. Her dress is open, the tie around her waist barely preserving her modesty. Ned and Stannis guard Jaime who is without his armor and his sword and most of his clothes. 

Apparently Bran saw what he thought he saw.

And the King did too.

Margaery tries to fade into the background. Robert’s temper is volatile, and there’s no knowing who it’ll catch in the crossfire.

“Gather the inhabitants of Winterfell,” Robert orders. “All of them.”

“Robert,” Ned begins.

“ _ Now _ ,” Robert snarls. He points at Brienne. “Pick up your sword, woman, and keep watch over the Kingslayer. Or should he be called Queen _ fucker _ instead?”

Sansa gasps, a hand covering her mouth too late. 

Cersei looks enraged, even as Robert tugs on her hair hard enough that it must hurt. Pride keeps her posture tall. Margaery doesn’t know how she isn’t afraid. Maybe she thinks her name will protect her. Has she learned nothing from her years of marriage to Robert?

A bell rings, calling all of Winterfell to the courtyard.

Margaery wishes she could stand close to her husband to draw comfort from being at his side. But her husband stands near the King, and Margaery doesn’t dare bring herself closer to him. 

Instead, she stands with the Stark children. She tucks Bran’s face into her skirt and clasps Sansa’s hand when the girl begins to tremble. 

“What’s going to happen?” she whispers.

Margaery doesn’t know. 

Dahlia hurries into the courtyard, Margaery’s son bundled into her arms. Her steps falter when she sees the Queen, still held tight by her husband’s grip. Her gaze seeks out Margaery, and Margaery beckons her forward. 

As soon as Dahlia’s close enough, Margaery holds her arms out for her son. 

“What has happened?” Dahlia asks, voice barely loud enough for Margaery to hear.

“The Queen and her brother were caught.”

Dahlia glances at the Lannisters’ state of undress and doesn’t need to ask anything else. 

Lady Catelyn arrives, and she pauses the same as Dahlia did, but she recovers quicker, squaring her shoulders before taking her place at Ned’s side. The rest of the Keep trickles in as well, until the entire courtyard is full.

Margaery tucks her son closer to her chest and hopes he stays asleep. She knows he’s too young to remember anything that happens this afternoon, but she still doesn’t want him to see. 

The royal children are the last to arrive, escorted by two harried older women. 

Myrcella gasps when she sees her mother.

Tommen’s eyes fill with tears.

“What is the meaning of this?” Joffrey demands, puffing his chest out as if he still thinks he has any kind of power here.

For the first time, Cersei looks afraid. 

_ She always loved her children more than anything else _ .

“Your mother, the  _ Queen _ ,” Robert spits out, “stands here convicted of treason.”

The courtyard falls deathly silent.

“Treason?” Joffrey repeats.

“The Kingslayer stands convicted as well,” Robert adds. “But this is one king he won’t slay. Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, will you execute the justice your King commands?”

Ned slowly eases his arm from his wife’s grip and drops to one knee. “I am loyal to my king.”

“Stand and retrieve your sword. The penalty for treason is death.”

“Death?” Joffrey repeats, his voice climbing towards panic.

Tommen’s tears spill over, and he begins to sob, openly and without shame. Myrcella clutches her dress between her hands as if she wants to raise the fabric and cover her eyes. 

Robert’s sharp eyes lingers on the children. He shoves Cersei to her knees. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Don’t be rash,” she tells him.

“I thought I was marrying a lioness, but I invited a snake into my bed.” He waves his hand to hurry Ned who is approaching with a slow step as if a few more seconds might be what Robert needs to come to his senses.

“My king,” Ned begins, the hesitance clear in his voice.

Robert snaps his attention to his friend. “Tell me, Ned, what did we witness in the tower?”

Ned glances around the courtyard, his gaze falling on his children then Margaery then the maids clustered together in the back. “We witnessed treason, your highness.”

“And what is the punishment for treason in Westeros?”

“Death,” Ned answers. He draws his sword from his sheath. “Whose transgression would you have me address first?”

“My whore of a wife.” But Robert isn’t speaking to Ned or even Cersei. He turns to Jaime. “You’ll watch her lose her head, knowing you brought this fate on her. On both of you.”

Jaime lunges but Brienne wrestles him to the ground, pinning him there where he can’t do any harm. 

“I want him to watch,” Robert commands. “Let him spend his last moments deciding if it was worth it.”

The master-at-arms brings out a device for Cersei to kneel over. She arranges herself over it with grace Margaery wouldn’t have if she knew she was going to her death.

She looks over at her children. “I have always loved you,” she tells him. “Your father knows that, and he’ll remember.”

Myrcella gathers Tommen in her arms as they both weep. Joffrey still stands, stunned, as if he doesn’t believe what’s happening. 

There is one last pause as Ned looks to Robert as if he’s hoping for the King to change his mind. 

“Do it,” Robert orders. 

Ned raises his sword. He brings it down and separates Cersei’s head from her shoulders with one stroke. 

Jaime bellows.

Myrcella screams.

Margaery clutches her son to her chest and forces herself to watch as Cersei’s head rolls a few inches before coming to a stop. Cersei is dead and can no longer harm her. But Robert has gone mad and he could be just as dangerous. 

Brienne and the master-at-arms have to lock Jaime into the device. It takes two swings for Ned to cut off his head.

The courtyard is silent afterward, the children’s cries choking off as Ned cleans his sword of their parents’ blood. Myrcella is the first to wipe her eyes. Her hands only tremble a little as she wipes Tommen’s next. 

She wraps her arms around him then stares Robert down as if she’ll fight him if he tries to hurt her brother. For the first time, Margaery sees her mother in her. It’s a bad time for that to shine through.

“You--” Joffrey splutters as he tries to gather the words for what he wants to say.

Talking was a mistake, because it draws Robert’s attention.

“Do you want to be next?” Robert demands, his bloodlust not sated by two deaths. “I know where your blond hair came from.”

“Robert.” It’s Ned who speaks, finding his voice as he sheathes his sword. “They’re children.”

_ So were the Targaryens. _

The same thought is visible in Robert’s face. He draws breath to declare their deaths anyway, but Stannis steps forward.

“You have a war on your hands, brother,” Stannis councils. “With Cersei and Jaime dead, the children are your only leverage with Tywin Lannister. If you kill them then you plunge our kingdom into civil war.”

_ He already has, _ Margaery thinks.  _ If I survived Cersei Lannister only to meet my death at her father’s hands then I will be quite cross indeed. _

“We’ll take the two youngest,” Ned says, seeing Stannis’s plan and supporting it. “We’ll keep them safe.”

“You do have experience with raising the children of traitors.” Robert’s gaze slides to Theon who puffs up as if he’s going to defend himself or his father.

A sharp elbow from Robb keeps him silent. 

“You should ride,” Stannis says. “News of what happened here will travel quickly. You want to be in King’s Landing when it happens. Fortify the capital. Not even Tywin Lannister is bold enough to challenge you in your stronghold.”

“And will I have your support?” Robert asks as if he’s in his war council and not the courtyard of Winterfell.

“The Stormlands will fight for their king,” Stannis says.

“As will the North,” Ned adds.

_ Gods help us all _ , Margaery prays.

#

Everything happens quickly after that.

Robert and his men, with Joffrey as insurance, ride for King’s Landing.

Ned prepares to call his bannermen.

Stannis and Margaery leaves for Dragonstone to do the same.

“I want you safe,” Stannis says as once they’re in their own lands. “Ned and I will defend the realm and when the fighting is over, I will return home to you.”

“I wish you could stay as well,” she says. 

“King Robert has even called on Renly,” Stannis says. He pulls Margaery into a tight embrace. “I will return to you. You and our child. I give you my word.”

#

Margaery is not cut out to sit at home and wait for news.

She paces.

She fidgets.

She coaxes her son into his first steps then leaves him with Dahlia to stare out the window as if she’ll see her husband riding down the path.

It’s far too soon for that.

She doesn’t even have Brienne here to keep her company. The woman put her armor on just as the men did and promised to protect Stannis, come what may.

It only means Margaery has  _ more  _ people to worry after; her brother, her husband, her Brienne.

#

It seems like an eternity before the raven comes with the news. Joffrey is dead, but no one knows who killed him.

At the end of the letter, almost a footnote  _ Tywin was slain by Brienne of Tarth but not before he was able to deliver a death blow to the king. Robert is dead. _

“Long live King Stannis,” Margaery murmurs.


End file.
